FORBIDDEN     GROUND 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND 


BY 
GILBERT  WATSON 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  LANE   COMPANY 
MCMX 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


CHAPTER  I 

A  GIRL  and  a  man  stood  facing  each  other  on  a  lonely 
mountain  path.  Around  them,  red  in  the  setting  sun, 
rose  the  frontier  hills  of  Albania.  Something  savage 
about  the  scene  which  the  mellow  light  failed  to  soften, 
something  primitive  and,  as  it  were,  the  expression  of 
unrestrained  nature,  struck  a  kindred  note  with  the  two 
figures  standing  on  the  desolate  track.  They,  too,  were 
of  the  mountains — a  hill-man  and  a  hill-woman  wearing 
the  semi-barbarous  costume  of  their  race. 

There  was  that  in  their  attitudes  and  faces  that  told 
of  a  crisis,  for  the  meeting  was  big  with  import  in  the 
life  of  each. 

The  girl  was  a  splendid  specimen  of  dawning  woman- 
hood. 

It  was  undoubtedly  her  eyes  that,  more  than  all  else, 
compelled  admiration.  Neither  her  face  nor  her  figure 
had  greater  claim  to  loveliness  than  had  those  of  many 
another  girl  of  her  race — a  race  justly  renowned  for  the 
good  looks  of  its  women — but  the  tragic  beauty  of  her 
eyes  was  all  her  own. 

There  was  something  arresting  in  her  companion,  no 
less  than  in  her.  His  tall,  gaunt  frame,  so  emaciated 
as  to  suggest  some  wasting  illness,  either  of  mind  or 
body,  was  not  without  indications  of  strength,  for  his 
shoulders  were  broad,  his  hands  big  and  knotted.  His 
face,  cast  in  a  large  rough  mould,  somewhat  coarse  as 
to  feature,  hinted  at  violent  passions.  The  eyes,  close 
together  and  deeply  sunken,  glittered  from  under  heavy 
overhanging  eyebrows,  glittered  with  a  savage  and 
sombre  concentration  that  was  ominous,  disquieting. 
The  mouth — partly  concealed  by  a  ragged  moustache — 
was  unpleasantly  indicative  of  sensuality.  The  whole 
effect  of  the  man,  as  he  stood  there,  less  intent  upon 
1  1 

2138816 


2  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

the  girl  before  him  than  upon  his  own  dark  and  brood- 
ing thoughts,  was  one  that  would  have  awed,  and  possibly 
even  alarmed,  a  spectator;  for  in  eyes,  expression,  atti- 
tude, there  was  a  suggestion  of  imminent  violence,  of 
emotions  so  overwrought  as  to  be  upon  the  verge  of  an 
outbreak. 

The  girl  appeared  to  be  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  and 
yet  her  expression  told  of  one  more  intent  upon  some 
all-engrossing  dream  of  her  own  than  of  one  merely 
expectant.  The  light  in  her  eyes  glowed  pensive,  tender, 
with  an  undercurrent  of  girlish  seriousness.  Something 
indescribable  in  them  spoke  of  the  momentous  and 
illuminating  knowledge  that  comes  only  with  the  lifting 
of  life's  curtain;  but  in  her  case  the  freshness  and  the 
innocence  of  girlhood — hers  still  by  right  of  years — 
though  forfeited,  had  not  taken  flight,  but  lingered,  loath 
to  leave,  transferring  their  allegiance  gladly  from  the 
maiden  to  the  woman. 

For  the  moment  she  did  not  see  this  man  upon  whom 
she  looked  and  whom  she  had  come  to  meet — some 
wonderful  vision,  born  in  the  inmost  and  most  sacred 
chamber  of  a  woman's  heart,  held  her  enrapt. 

The  wind,  precursor  of  the  night,  struck  chill  at  her, 
but  she  was  unconscious  of  it.  Dreaming  she  stood; 
herself  as  fair  as  any  dream;  a  young  presence  strangely 
sweet,  strangely  full  of  budding  life  among  this  great 
chaos  of  dead  and  barren  rocks. 

The  man  was  the  first  to  rouse  himself. 

"  Zetitzka,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  Stephanos?  " 

There  is  everything  in  the  enunciation  of  a  name.  Hers 
was  shot  forth  abruptly,  harshly,  with  effort.  It  betrayed 
neither  ardour  nor  satiety,  though  in  the  swift  glance  that 
accompanied  it  lurked  fear.  His  name  was  spoken  timidly, 
interrogatively,  with  gentle  acquiescence,  though  with  an 
unconscious  and  entire  absence  of  that  soul  to  soul  equality 
that  is  the  foundation  of  abiding  love.  In  her  eyes — re- 
called suddenly  from  inward  vision — this  submissive  at- 
titude was  still  more  observant;  it  was  as  if  the  sunshine 
of  her  nature  were  overcast  by  the  shadow  of  his,  as  a 
smiling  landscape  is  darkened  by  the  sombre  passage  of 
a  cloud. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  3 

He  hesitated,  shifted  his  footing  restlessly  like  one  ill 
at  ease,  clasping  and  unclasping  the  coarse  folds  of  his 
capot  with  nervous,  bony  fingers.  As  she  stood  waiting 
he  cast  another  glance  at  her,  full  of  conflicting  emotions ; 
then,  as  though  unable  to  face  her  clear  and  unsuspecting 
gaze,  his  eyes  drooped  moodily  to  the  ground. 

"  I  know  not  how  to  tell  you,"  he  muttered. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  too,"  she  whispered. 

He  clenched  his  fists. 

"  I  must,"  he  vociferated  angrily,  labouring  under 
suppressed  excitement,  his  deep-set  eyes  suddenly  blazing 
with  a  wild  and  irrational  intensity.  "  I  tell  you  I  must. 
Listen — do  not  speak.  Last  night  I  had  a  dream.  God 
spoke  to  me.  He  knows  all.  Do  you  hear?  He  knows 
all!" 

Her  brows  contracted.  That  his  exaggerated  manner 
(exaggerated  beyond  even  the  Southern  impetuosity  that 
was  his  birthright  as  well  as  hers)  caused  her  uneasiness 
and  even  pain  was  evident;  still,  with  a  tact  born  of  ex- 
perience, she  remained  silent. 

"  He  is  angry.  I  tell  you  He  knows  all — our  meetings 
— our  sin — and  we  who  thought  our  secret  safe !  Fools ! 
We  forgot  Him." 

She  would  have  laid  a  calming  hand  on  his  arm,  but 
he  shrank  from  her. 

"  If  He  has  seen  us,  Stephanos,  He  understands.  The 
priest  says  that  He  reads  our  hearts — that  He  will  forgive 
us  when —  She  hesitated,  then  raising  her  head 

proudly :  ' '  You  need  not  fear.  I  am  not  afraid. ' ' 

' '  But  I  do  fear — not  only  that,  but — if  you  had  seen ! 
Had  heard !  And  the  sin — the  deadly  sin  !  I  was  mad.  I 
thought  it  Love !  ' '  He  gesticulated  with  savage  irony. 
"  I  loved  nothing — nothing,  but  my  own  passions,  God  for- 
give me!  " 

The  blank  consternation  in  her  face  caused  him  to  burst 
forth  again. 

"  It  was  the  devil.  He  tempted  me — ay,  with  you! 

These  eyes  of  yours!  I  was  as  one  drunken!  I "  he 

muttered  incoherently;  then,  with  sombre  conviction,  "  You 
never  loved  me  either,  Zetitzka." 

For  the  first  time  her  nature  seemed  to  catch  fire,  to 
flame  responsive.  A  passionate  denial  leapt  to  her  lips, 


4  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

but  she  crushed  it  back.  Unaware  of  her  self-control,  he 
continued : 

"  I  knew.  I  felt  it.  Many  a  time  I  have  felt  you 
shrink.  That  is  not  love.  Love  casts  out  fear.  Our 
past  is  black  with  sin.  You  tempted  me,  and  I  fell.  I 
was  brutal  to  you.  I  don't  deny  it.  I  don't  blame  you. 
It  was  the  devil;  you  could  not  help  being  a  woman. 
Women  are  made  to  tempt  men's  souls  with —  My  God, 
don't  look  at  me  like  that!  "  His  voice  rose  in  harsh  re- 
monstrance, then  sank  again  into  sombre  reminiscence: 
!<  If  I  had  power  over  you,  you  had  power  over  me,  too — 
devilish,  damnable  power,  consuming  as  the  flames  of  hell. 
I  stand  at  the  turning  of  the  ways.  This  night  is  my  soul 
demanded  of  me.  Eternal  life  or  everlasting  damnation. 
My  flesh  is  weak,  diseased.  You  are  the  poison  in  it.  But 
I  will  conquer !  I  will  wash  in  blood — the  blood  of  Christ ! 
I  will,  I  tell  you,  I  will!  " 

A  frenzied  earnestness  rang  in  his  utterances.  One  could 
see  that  he  was  in  the  grip  of  a  terrible  fear,  spurred  on 
his  selfish  and  merciless  way  by  the  memory  of  a  terrible 
danger. 

Confronting  him,  motionless,  his  companion  listened. 
Accustomed  though  she  was  to  his  black  moods,  his  fits 
of  morose  and  fanatical  apprehension,  she  had  never  seen 
him  thus  violent.  As  a  rule,  these  morbid  searchings  alter- 
nated with,  or  followed  immediately  after,  some  bout  of 
merely  animal  passion,  but  this  time  no  physical  pander- 
ing to  his  senses  preceded  the  outburst.  He  had  come  to 
this  meeting  charged  with  some  incontrollable  emotion  that 
shook  his  whole  being  as  a  guilt-laden  soul  is  shaken  by 
conscience  at  the  hour  of  death. 

She  stood  bewildered,  pained  beyond  expression, 
wounded  in  her  tenderest  and  most  sacred  feelings.  Then, 
his  worn  and  distraught  appearance  appealing  to  her 
womanly  pity,  she  found  only  excuses  for  him  in  her  heart. 

"  Never  mind,  dear,"  she  said  gently.  "  Do  not  make 
yourself  unhappy.  "When  one  is  ill  one  exaggerates.  God 
knows  that  I  did  not  mean  to  tempt  you.  I  was  ignorant. 
You  took  me  unprepared.  And  later — now — how  could 
I  refuse  you  anything?  All  that  I  am  is  yours.  I  do  not 
know  myself.  I  seem  to  have  no  pride  left."  She  pressed 
her  hands  to  her  eyes,  thinking  painfully,  then  went  on: 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  5 

"  I  know  you  love  me  in  spite  of  these  wild  words.  God 
knows  it,  too.  He  wishes  to  bless  our  love,  for — for  He 

has  sent "  She  hesitated.  A  shy,  tremulous  light 

shone  in  her  eyes,  and  the  quick  colour  dyed  her  face. 

But  the  girlish  confidence  that  might  have  changed  all, 
was  cut  from  her  lips  by  his  irresponsible  violence. 

"  I  shall  go  mad,"  he  vociferated  wildly,  clasping  his 
head  with  his  hands.  "  Will  you  not  understand?  We 
must  part.  I  came  here  to  tell  you. ' ' 

She   stared   at   him  uncomprehending.     He   continued : 

"  This  must  stop.  God  forbids  it.  We  were  blind;  but 
now  my  eyes  are  opened.  I  have  a  soul  to  save.  There  is 
but  one  way.  All  my  life  it  has  called  me;  but,  though  I 
knew  it  would  win  at  the  last,  I  kept  putting  it  off.  Then 
you  came — you,  with  your  eyes,  your  proud  ways  that  bent 
to  my  will,  your  body  that  would  seduce  a  saint ;  and  I  for- 
got all  except  the  devouring  hunger  for  you.  What  did 
you  see  in  me,  Zetitzka?  Why  did  you  think  you  loved 
me?  I  was  no  wooer.  I  am  rugged  like  these  rocks — 
savage  and  lonely  like  an  eagle  with  a  dead  mate.  It  was 
the  devil 's  plot.  I  was  tinder,  you  the  spark.  Which  shall 
God  blame  because  the  furnace  roared?  " 

He  broke  off,  his  words  muttering  low;  then  abruptly 
raising  his  head,  continued: 

"  Don't  think  I  try  to  excuse  myself.  I  am  the  worst 

of  sinners,  but — but "  He  stammered  in  desperate 

eagerness.  "  I  may  yet  escape  damnation.  I  must  never 
see  you  again.  I  must  work  out  my  salvation  with  stripes 
and  bitter  tears.  No  need  to  speak.  All  is  arranged.  I 
would  have  told  you  before — but  I  feared — the  lust  of  the 

flesh  was  upon  me Come,  don't  stand  there  like  a 

stone!  After  all,  you  are  young — you  will  forget — it 
might  be  worse.  Come,  say  good-bye,  Zetitzka ;  I  go  now. ' ' 

"  You— go— now?  " 

He  gave  a  sullen  gesture  of  assent.  There  was  a  long 
pause. 

The  gulf  of  silence,  widening  momentarily,  threatened  to 
become  the  memorable  margin  of  a  life-long  separation. 
The  girl  felt  this,  and  became  afraid.  With  a  terrible 
sinking  of  the  heart  she  realised  her  impotence,  her  helpless 
inadequacy.  The  blow  had  found  her  so  unprepared. 
Many  things  suggested  themselves  to  her,  as  her  thoughts 


6  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

surged  this  way  and  that;  things  she  might  say,  useless 
things,  angry  things,  piteous  things;  but  a  dawning  sense 
of  the  supreme  importance  of  the  moment  saved  her  from 
uttering  them.  Something  horribly  vital  was  in  the  bal- 
ance ;  a  word  might  make  all  the  difference,  might  fix  their 
relation  for  ever. 

In  this  girl's  mind  unforeseen  catastrophe  was  giving 
birth  to  courage — the  moral  courage  that  stares  ugly  and 
naked  facts  full  in  the  face.  For  the  first  time  she 
emerged  from  timidities,  indecisions,  from  the  shadow  of 
another,  and  became  a  personality.  Her  one  instinctive 
desire,  groping  and  pathetically  inexperienced,  yet  reso- 
lute in  its  brave  sincerity,  was  to  get  at  the  truth,  to 
find  out  where  she  stood  with  this  man,  so  that  she  might 
cope  with  the  evil  that  had  overwhelmed  her. 

All  at  once,  as  she  stared  into  the  blackness,  a  glimmer 
rewarded  her;  she  met  it  courageously,  though  it  spelt 
despair. 

' '  I  see, ' '  she  said  slowly, ' '  you  have  grown  tired  of  me. ' ' 

His  hot  denial,  sincere — for  even  at  the  very  moment 
of  her  accusation  he  was  invaded  by  longing  that  needed 
all  his  strength  to  crush — carried  no  conviction  to  her. 
She  silenced  him  with  a  gesture. 

"  It  must  be  so,  or —  She  broke  off;  then,  as  though 

conscious  of  some  bitter  irony  that  eluded  his  knowledge, 
' '  And  you  tell  me  this  to-night  ?  ' ! 

He  looked  at  her  in  sombre  surprise,  but  she  was  gazing 
past  him  with  an  expression  that  he  could  not  fathom. 
For  a  moment  his  dull,  self-centred  brain  wondered  if 
there  were  depths  in  this  young  girl  which  he  had  not 
sounded ;  if  there  were  aught  in  her  indeed  beyond  physical 
perfection,  the  lure  that  had  ensnared  his  soul.  As  he 
wondered,  a  look  of  unmistakable  horror  stamped  itself 
upon  her  every  feature. 

"  No !  "  she  cried,  wheeling  upon  him  passionately,  ' '  I 
will  not  tell  you.  You  are  not  worthy  of  it.  But  you  can- 
not, you  shall  not  go !  You  must  be  a  devil  even  to  think 
of  it !  I  will  tell  everyone.  I  will  force  you  to  stay.  Do 

you   hear?     Force   you!     To   desert  me   now — now 

Something  rose  in  her  throat,  but  she  gulped  it  down. 
"  Holy  Jesus!  No,  that  would  be  too  infamous!  " 

The  fierce  rush  of  emotions  shook  her.     In  her  bitter 


resentment,  with  head  held  high  and  eyes  that  flamed, 
she  filled  him  with  consternation.  He  stared  speechless, 
though  there  was  nothing  in  his  sullen  lowering  brows  that 
told  of  yielding. 

A  pause,  then  a  swift  change  came  over  her. 

"Stephanos,"  she  said  brokenly,  ''forgive  me!  I — I 
don't  know  what  I  was  saying.  I  didn't  mean  a  word 
of  it.  Don't  be  angry.  I  was  mad.  But  see,  I  am  calm 
now.  I  smile."  She  smiled  up  at  him  through  her  tears. 
"  I  have  been  wicked.  It  has  all  been  my  fault.  But,  oh, 
don't  punish  me  like  this!  I  can't  bear  it.  I'll  do  any- 
thing you  like — anything.  Only — don't  leave  me.  I  shall 
be  alone — Stephanos!  The  shame — I  can't  bear  it.  Oh, 
Stephanos,  for  the  love  of  the  sweet  Virgin,  don't  leave 
me!  " 

She  clung  to  him.  She  sought  to  kiss  his  rough  hand 
with  her  trembling,  tear-salt  lips.  None  could  have  lis- 
tened unmoved.  Few  could  have  denied  aught  to  one  so 
young,  so  pathetically  appealing.  But  this  man  hardened 
his  heart. 

There  was  something  final  about  his  attitude,  as,  dis- 
engaging himself,  he  stood  aloof.  As  Zetitzka  gazed  at 
him,  hope  fled,  but  pride  came  to  her  aid.  She  drew  her. 
self  up. 

"  What  am  I  to  say  to  my  parents?  "  she  asked. 

He  raised  his  head,  but  avoided  her  eyes. 

"  No  need  to  say  anything." 

"  They  will  have  to  know — soon."  She  whispered  the 
words  more  to  herself  than  to  him.  The  marvel  was  that 
her  secret  remained  undiscovered. 

But  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders.  No  words  could 
more  callously  have  conveyed  his  indifference  to  all  that 
did  not  concern  his  soul's  salvation.  She  looked  up  at 
him  with  a  quick,  penetrating  glance,  as  though  indeed  she 
were  seeing  him  for  the  first  time,  seeing  him  as  he  really 
was.  She  had  taken  the  first  fateful  step.  At  present,  con- 
scious only  of  the  bewilderment,  the  incredulity  of  this 
sudden  immense  disillusionment,  the  shattering  of  dreams 
how  secretly,  how  tenderly  cherished !  the  rawness  of  a 
wound  newly  inflicted,  and  the  paralysing  dread  of  a 
future  full  of  loneliness  and  horror,  she  knew  not  whither 
this  was  to  lead  her — but  she  was  soon  to  find  out.  This 


8 

one  man  had  been  the  entire  sex  to  her.     She  looked  at 
him  and  wondered :     ' '  Are  all  men  like  this  ?  ' ' 

"  There  is  more  than  that,"  she  said  at  last,  forcing 
herself  to  speak.  "  They  believe  that — that  we  are  to  be 
married. ' ' 

He  started  as  though  stung,  for  marriage  had  now  no 
place  in  his  thoughts.  His  pale  face  flushed. 

"  Who  told— how  did  they  know?  " 

"  I  told  them." 

He  stared  at  her,  speechless,  fear  contending  with  anger. 

"  They  saw  us  together.     They  questioned  me.     You  do 
not  know  them — I  tried — but  they  would  have  the  truth. ' ' 
'  The  truth?  " 

"Yes,  I  thought  so.  God  help  me!  I — I  was  proud 
of  it !  You  said  once — that  night — otherwise  do  you  think 
that  I  would — would  ever  have " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  He  waited,  his  eyes 
fixed  moodily  on  the  ground. 

The  sun  had  withdrawn  his  rays.  The  afterglow,  rosy 
and  luminous  as  a  tropical  shell,  suffused  the  scene.  No 
sound  from  the  world  of  nature,  save  the  bleating  of  dis- 
tant goats,  came  to  the  ear.  The  hour  was  one  of  infinite 
peace. 

Stephanos  was  the  first  to  move.  Taking  a  small  leathern 
wallet  from  an  inner  pocket  he  looked  at  it,  hesitated, 
then  proffered  it  to  his  companion.  She  did  not  see  it. 

"  Take  this,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  one  awkwardly  try- 
ing to  make  amends. 

She  raised  her  head,  but  no  look  of  comprehension  came 
into  her  face. 

'  Tis  a  thousand  drachmae.     Tis  little,  but " 

"  Money!  "  she  cried.  He  quailed  before  her  eyes,  then 
with  visible  confusion,  not  unmixed  with  the  coarser 
nature's  astonishment,  he  returned  the  wallet  to  his  pocket. 

"  I  meant  for  the  best,"  he  muttered,  eyeing  her  askance. 
"  I  have  sold  the  house.  I  shall  have  no  need  of  money 
where  I  am  going.  Zetitzka —  "  he  stretched  out  a  hand, 
but  as  he  noted  the  pale  and  unnatural  rigidity  of  her 
expression  it  fell  limply  to  his  side.  "  Let  me  do  some- 
thing for  you,  as — as  a  friend.  Your  parents  are  poor- 
nay,  I  mean  no  offence — I  am  no  Arnaut,  I  have  known 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  9 

what  it  is  to  be  rich.  This  would  bring  them  comforts. 
Well,  if  you  will  not — but  I  thought " 

He  broke  off,  plucked  nervously  at  the  hem  of  his 
cloak,  then  spoke  again: — 

"  Do  you  blame  me?  You  would  not  if  you  had  heard 
what  I  did  last  night.  Do  you  not  see  ?  The  devil  brought 
us  together.  God  is  snatching  us  apart.  It  is  His  will. 
He  calls  me.  I  must  obey." 

His  tone  had  become  the  exalted  utterance  of  the  fanatic, 
but  neither  by  word  nor  look  did  the  girl  beside  him  show 
that  she  heard. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  muttered  with  increased  awkwardness. 
Then,  as  she  still  continued  silent: — 

"  It  will  soon  be  night.  Let  me  see  you  start  on  your 
homeward  way." 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  watched  her  for  a  moment  without  speaking,  then 
suddenly,  with  an  upward  gesture  of  the  hands  as  though 
calling  upon  God  to  witness,  he  turned  abruptly  and  strode 
away. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  YEAR  passed.  Again  the  valleys  sought  to  nurse  their 
scanty  greenery  through  the  long  droughts  of  summer; 
again,  sinking  to  the  mountain  summits,  the  sun  deluged 
the  world  in  fire;  and,  again,  two  figures  might  have  been 
seen  on  the  path  which  led  towards  the  Albanian  frontier. 

Both  were  women,  one  young,  the  other  old — Zetitzka 
and  her  mother.  Before  them,  but  still  remote,  the  hills 
that  immediately  overlook  the  plains  of  Thessaly  were 
faintly  visible.  The  elder  woman  carried  a  bundle,  the 
younger  a  baby.  The  former  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal 
her  fatigue.  As  she  stumbled  onwards  she  kept  up  a 
grumbling  monologue ;  anathematising  the  stones,  the  grow- 
ing darkness,  and  the  necessity  that  had  forced  her  to  un- 
dertake so  arduous  a  journey. 

But  Zetitzka  uttered  no  complaint.  Her  figure,  dark 
against  the  golden  background,  swayed  as  she  sought  to 
avoid  the  larger  stones  that  formed  a  growing  danger  as 
the  light  ebbed  slowly  into  the  west.  As  far  as  could  be 
seen,  both  women  wore  the  dress  of  Albanians  of  the  better 
class:  the  coarse  shoes,  the  legs  swathed  in  innumerable 
bandages,  and  the  ample  red  cloak  that,  concealing  all 
minor  deficiencies,  forms  so  complete  a  disguise  to  young 
and  old. 

The  face  of  Zetitzka  was  visible,  flushed  now  to  the  colour 
of  clear  sunset;  for  the  dying  rose  that  steeped  all  things 
mantled  her  cheeks  and  brow. 

She  had  changed  in  the  year  that  had  elapsed;  had  lost 
some  of  her  youthfulness,  had  grown  thinner,  paler,  but 
retained  all  the  old  interest-compelling  quality  which  was 
to  her  as  a  distinctive  atmosphere;  the  essence  of  her 
personality.  The  regard  of  her  eyes  was  deeper  than  of 
yore ;  more  sternly  reticent.  Their  beauty  was  still  incon- 
testable, but  they  were  now  possessed  by  a  hard  light,  as 
of  fires  eternally  smouldering,  kept  alive  by  the  memory 

10 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  11 

of  some  abiding  wrong — a  wrong  too  great  for  expression, 
too  bitter  for  tears. 

The  mouth  betrayed  change  too.  Nature  had  framed 
it  for  smiles  and  girlish  laughter,  but  life  had  taught  it  to 
shut  tight  lips  upon  pain. 

There  was  something  hideous  and  cruel  in  this  thwart- 
ing of  kindly  impulses,  this  moral  starvation  that  had 
turned  a  gladsome  young  spirit  into  a  brooding  soul.  Yet 
even  as  a  tree,  blackened  by  lightning,  treasures  unwit- 
tingly within  its  heart  that  which  will  one  day  welcome 
the  spring,  so  also  in  Zetitzka's  face  something  survived  that 
was  destined  to  defy  fate. 

They  walked — Zetitzka  in  front,  her  mother  behind — 
slowly  yet  steadily,  as  befitted  travellers  who  have  come 
from  far.  The  old  woman  hobbled  slightly,  but  Zetitzka, 
in  spite  of  her  fatigue,  moved  with  the  easy,  graceful 
carriage  of  a  hill-woman,  pausing  occasionally  to  shift  the 
bundle  she  was  carrying  from  one  arm  to  the  other.  "When- 
ever she  did  so,  she  would  gaze  at  the  little  sleeper.  At 
such  moments  her  face  softened ;  a  shadowy  light,  infinitely 
pathetic  and  tender,  shone  in  her  dark  eyes,  but  only  for 
a  moment,  for  as  she  resumed  the  road,  the  old  expression, 
hard  and  grievous  to  see,  took  its  place. 

From  behind  her  came  always  the  long-drawn  querulous 
monologue  of  her  mother,  a  dreary  depressing  sound  that 
seemed  to  Zetitzka,  accustomed  though  she  was  to  inter- 
minable complaints,  to  be  one  with  the  encroaching  gloom, 
with  the  sad  light  dying  slowly  in  the  west,  and  with  the 
unknown  perils  of  this  journey  upon  which  she  had  em- 
barked. 

And  thus  they  fared  forward,  mother  and  daughter, 
two  small  and  insignificant  figures,  slowly  moving,  in  that 
great  waste  of  rock-strewn  hills. 

All  at  once  Zetitzka  came  to  a  standstill. 
'  We  have  come  far  enough,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  Nik  Leka  told  me  that  we  must  wait  on  the  hillside  till 
we  saw  a  light." 

The  old  woman  sank  on  to  a  stone.  In  the  dusk  she 
had  the  air  of  a  shapeless  sack  flung  to  the  ground. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  she  mumbled.  "How  my  legs  do 
ache  J  We  must  have  walked  for  ten  hours  at  least.  How 


12  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

dark  it  is!  Your  father  will  be  having  his  supper  now. 
And  I  alone  can  do  his  rice  as  he  likes  it.  Thank  God, 
I  shall  be  home  to-morrow!  Are  you  sure  Nik  Leka  said 
that  ?  How  do  you  know  this  is  the  place  ?  What  is  that  ? 
There?  Over  there?  Holy  Saints!  " 

She  pointed  her  skinny  finger  at  something  that  appeared 
to  threaten  vaguely  with  extended  arms. 

"  That  is  the  tree  he  told  me  about,"  explained  Zetitzka 
in  a  low  voice.  "  The  village  is  below  us.  Nik  Leka  said 
there  was  a  blood-feud,  and  that  they  have  barricaded  the 
houses  and  we  might  get  shot.  He  is  to  be  in  the  Khan 
to-night,  and  promised  to  get  the  Khanje  to  show  a  light 
when  it  was  safe  for  us  to  come. ' ' 

The  wind  blew  lightly,  wailing  over  the  vast  expanse, 
stirring  the  thin  mountain-grass  and  snatching  at  the  gar- 
ments of  the  two  women.  Overhead,  a  few  small  clouds 
still  retained  the  flush  of  the  departed  sun.  Above  the 
dark  outline  of  hills  that  shut  them  in,  now  black  as  night, 
the  pale  green  of  the  heavens  was  lit  by  one  star.  The 
sound  of  running  water  murmured  softly,  a  melancholy 
plaint  as  of  far-off  singing  in  the  darkness.  The  whole 
scene  was  deeply  impregnated  with  the  indescribable  sad- 
ness that  comes  with  night — a  sadness  born  of  mystery,  of 
loneliness,  and  the  death  of  all  bright  things. 

The  old  woman  groaned  again. 

"  You  are  tired?  "  murmured  Zetitzka;  "  it  was  good 
of  you  to  come  so  far  with  me.  But  I  wish " 

The  sentence  remained  unfinished.  Her  voice  had  all 
the  hopelessness  of  one  who  knows  her  wishes  to  be  in 
vain. 

* '  Tired !  ' '  snapped  the  querulous  voice  in  the  dusk,  * '  I 
am  dead.  These  stones  have  cut  my  shoes.  I  don't  know 
what  your  father  will  say.  I  had  hard  work  to  persuade 
him  to  let  me  come  with  you.  'Tis  nothing  but  work, 
work,  work,  what  with  your  illness  and  his  being  crippled ; 
and  now  that  you  are  going  to  be  away 

She  broke  off  with  a  self -pitying  ejaculation ;  then,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  continued: — 

"  And  your  baby!  Why  did  you  bring  him?  I  will 
have  to  carry  him  back  to-morrow — I,  alone.  But  you 
never  think  of  me.  No,  I  am  no  one.  Lord,  how  my 
feet  ache!  " 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  13 

Zetitzka  looked  downwards  at  the  small  body  held  so 
close  to  her  heart. 

"  You  need  not  grudge  me  this  last  day,"  she  said  with 
effort — then,  with  a  sudden  catch  in  her  voice,  "  I — I  may 
not  see  him  for  a  long  time — perhaps,  never  again." 

"  Nonsense!  If  all  goes  well  you  will  be  back  in  less 
than  a  week.  But  'tis  a  pity  your  father  could  not  have 
done  it  for  you.  It  would  have  been  more  natural.  Tis 
your  bad  fortune,  Zetitzka,  no  male  relatives.  Holy  Vir- 
gin, these  stones  are  hard !  But,  as  I  said  only  last  night, 
if  my  brother  had  lived — he  was  a  proper  man — but  they 
killed  him  at  last,  peace  be  to  his  soul — though  of  all  men 
he  disliked  peace  the  most.  Fight !  He  was  always  fight- 
ing. He  stabbed  four  men,  as  you  have  heard  often.  Why 
doesn't  that  pedlar  show  a  light?  Do  you  think  he  has 
forgotten?  Ay,  ay,  no  male  relatives.  That  is  what 
troubles  your  father.  He  has  a  fine  spirit,  Zetitzka,  in 
spite  of  his  legs.  I  thought  he  would  have  burst  a  blood- 
vessel when  I  told  him  of  your  misfortune.  But  he  never 
saw  it  for  himself.  Not  he.  Men  are  stupid,  but  you  can- 
not deceive  a  woman,  above  all,  a  mother." 

She  clucked  throatily. 

'  *  I  never  wished  to  deceive  you, ' '  muttered  Zetitzka. 

"  You  did,"  shrilled  the  old  woman.  "  You  pretended 
he  was  going  to  marry  you.  Marriage !  Yah !  And  what 
a  husband !  A  wretch  who  worked  his  wicked  will  on  you, 
then  ran  away  to  a  monastery.  Coward !  ' ' 

She  expectorated  angrily.  Zetitzka  did  not  answer. 
She  was  staring  stonily  into  the  gloom.  This  talk  was 
but  one  of  many,  endured  patiently,  as  day  after  day  she 
had  gone  about  her  household  tasks  with  all  the  bitterness 
and  pathos  of  the  grief  she  could  not  express,  even  to  her- 
self, locked  within  her  heart. 

"  But  we  will  have  him  yet,"  burst  forth  the  voice  by 
her  side  in  savage  exultation.  "  He  did  not  think  that 
Nik  Leka  would  see  him  and  bring  the  news  over  the 
frontier  to  us.  No,  he  did  not  calculate  on  that.  He,  only 
a  niggardly  trader,  so  they  say !  Stabbing  is  too  good  for 
him.  I  would  tear  his  heart  out  and  give  it  to  the  dogs. 
By  the  Saints,  your  father  was  right !  '  She  must  revenge 
herself,'  said  he,  and  I  tell  you,  Zetitzka,  I  thought  he 


14  FOKBIDDEN  GROUND 

would  have  broken  his  crutch  upon  the  floor.  *  Or  by  the 
Almighty  God,  I  will  curse  her  child.'  " 

"  Mother!  " 

The  girlish  voice  rang  out  sharply,  with  a  high  keen 
note  of  pain.  The  old  woman  uttered  a  complacent  croak. 

"  Ah,  that  touches  you,  does  it?  So  much  the  better. 
I  cannot  see  your  face,  but  it  ought  to  be  red  with  shame. 
To  bring  disgrace  upon  us — Arnauts  as  we  are!  You 
that  we  thought  so  young,  so  innocent!  Your  father  is 
right,  he — 

"  Oh,  say  no  more!  "  cried  the  girl,  goaded  to  utter- 
ance. "  You  have  said  it  all  so  often.  I  have  done  wrong. 
My  God,  yes!  Do  you  think  I  don't  suffer?  But  what 
is  the  good  of  speech?  I  have  promised.  I  will  keep  my 
word. ' ' 

"  That  may  be,"  muttered  the  old  woman,  somewhat 
abashed.  "  But  how  was  I  to  know  ?  You  did  not  tell  me 
till  you  were  forced  to  do  so.  You  have  always  been  a 
secret  one,  Zetitzka.  Besides,  when  a  girl  loves " 

"  Loves!  " 

The  word  blazed  out.  The  old  woman's  jaw  fell.  Ap- 
prehensively she  stared  upwards  at  the  dark  and  rigid 
figure  by  her  side.  A  pause,  then  the  words  came : — 

"I  tell  you  I  hate  him!  Hate  him!  Hate  him!  " 
She  dashed  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  as  though  with  that 
fierce  gesture  she  could  slay  all  womanly  weakness.  Her 
young  voice  rang  hard: — "  When  he  deserted  me,  I — I — 
oh,  I  can't  talk  about  it!  "  With  a  passionate  motion  of 
the  hands  she  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  I  knew  that,"  croaked  her  mother  complacently. 
"  When  I  put  your  baby  to  your  breast  for  the  first  time, 
I  knew  it  then.  You  remember,  Zetitzka?  You  snatched 
yourself  from  the  child  and  devoured  him  with  eyes  that 
said  as  plain  as  words :  '  Is  he  like  ?  '  And  then  you 
gave  a  great  sigh  of  content  and  fell  back  in  the  bed,  for 
there  was  no  more  likeness  to  that — that  scoundrel,  than 
between  a  yataghan  and  a  broom-handle.  You  re- 
member? " 

There  came  a  muffled  assent. 

' '  Ay,  ay,  well,  I  went  straight  to  your  father  and  said : 
'  Marco,  do  not  trouble  yourself.  She  will  do  it.'  ' 

Zetitzka  shuddered,  though  the  night  air  was  warm.     A 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  15 

terrible  depression  invaded  her.  The  foundations  of  her 
being  seemed  to  have  been  demolished.  Her  pride  was 
in  the  dust;  her  heart  atrophied;  an  apparent  callousness 
possessed  her,  the  petrifaction  of  every  gentle,  tender,  or 
lively  feeling.  Her  own  self-contempt  was  so  immense  that 
what  others  might  think  had  become  almost  a  matter  of 
indifference.  They  could  never  judge  her  as  unmerci- 
fully as  she  judged  herself.  Daily,  nay  hourly,  she  was 
arraigned  before  the  judgment  seat  of  her  own  finer  feel- 
ings, found  guilty,  and  given  over  to  the  torture  of  re- 
morseful thoughts.  Even  her  mother's  nagging  left  her 
unmoved.  She  had  ceased  to  care.  Suffering  had  at  least 
done  that  for  her.  She  hugged  her  pain  close,  taking  a 
cruel  and  unnatural  pleasure  in  the  gnawing  ache  that 
was  her  companion  by  day  and  by  night. 

Two  things  only  had  power  to  rouse  her:  thoughts  of 
her  child,  and  of  the  man  who  had  ruined  her.  The 
former  awoke  passionate,  primitive,  and  complex  emo- 
tions. The  mother  in  her  was  strong,  fierce,  jealous — a 
tigress  defending  her  cub.  For  her  child's  sake  she  bit- 
terly resented  the  contemptuous  pity,  or  open  condemnation 
of  her  associates.  She  repaid  scorn  with  scorn.  In- 
stinctively she  sought  to  hide  the  little  one  from  all  un- 
loving eyes.  When  alone  with  it  she  would  pour  out  upon 
its  tiny  and  unconscious  person  torrents  of  dammed-up 
tenderness,  devouring  it  with  kisses,  smiling  and  "weeping 
over  it  alternately,  seeking  with  all  the  thwarted  affec- 
tion of  a  heart  by  nature  warm  and  passionate  to  make  up 
to  it  with  a  boundless  idolatry  for  the  contumely  of  a 
hostile  world. 

For  the  man  she  felt  only  hatred.  Her  love — if  love 
it  had  ever  been — was  dead.  It  had  sprung  rather  from 
imagination  than  from  the  heart — the  devotion  for  a 
Stephanos  who  had  never  existed.  His  influence  over 
her  had  been  compounded  of  a  mysterious  fascination,  a 
physical  and  almost  mesmeric  force  that  had  paralysed 
her  will,  blinded  her  vision,  and  overruled  her  sense  of 
right  and  wrong.  For  the  time  her  mental  balance  had 
been  upset.  This  man's  dark  and  masterful  personality 
had  dominated  her  trusting,  innocent,  and  wholly  un- 
sophisticated soul — the  soul  of  a  woman  in  which  lurked 
the  seeds  of  all  love  and  hate,  all  self-sacrifice  and  revenge. 


16  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

She  had  been  in  love  with  love;  not  with  Stephanos. 
Wooed  more  by  the  whisper  of  innocent  hopes  than  by 
any  words  of  his,  she  had  attributed  these  new  and  over- 
whelming emotions  to  love,  translating  his  culpable  weak- 
ness into  strength,  his  merely  animal  passion  into  a  noble 
and  lifelong  devotion. 

Now,  she  knew.  The  shock  of  her  awakening  had  been 
terrible.  The  selfishness  of  his  desertion  stood  out  in  all 
its  repellant  nakedness.  The  injustice  of  it  was  what 
inflamed  her  most,  for  her  sense  of  justice,  though  primi- 
tive, was  unerring.  For  her  child's  sake,  as  well  as  her 
own,  she  now  hated  him  with  a  fierce  and  undying  hatred 
that  longed  to  see  him  dead  at  her  feet. 

The  outraged  pride  of  her  parents  had  fanned  this  in- 
stinctive passion.  By  every  cruel  means  within  their 
power,  they  had  driven  home  to  her  poor  wounded  heart 
the  conviction  that  the  death  of  her  betrayer  was  the  one 
and  only  way  to  redeem  the  family  honour,  remove  the 
stigma  from  her  child,  and  re-establish  her  good  name. 

And  she  listened  day  after  day,  passing  insensibly 
through  the  many  stages  that  lie  between  the  dumb  apathy 
of  suffering  and  the  dumb  apathy  of  acquiescence;  till 
there  had  grown  up  within  her  the  unalterable  conviction 
that  such  an  act  of  personal  vengeance  was  inevitable,  her 
duty  before  God  and  man,  towards  her  parents,  her  child 
and  herself. 

Nor  was  such  a  conclusion  unnatural  when  her  birth 
and  upbringing  are  taken  into  consideration. 

Zetitzka  came  of  a  wild  Albanian  stock — Arnaut  moun- 
taineers, accustomed  to  treat  assassination  as  a  justifiable 
means  of  removing  an  adversary,  or  of  wiping  out  a  stain 
upon  the  honour  of  the  assassin.  Had  she  been  told  that 
to  stab  a  man  in  the  back  was  a  dastardly  deed,  she  would 
have  stared  with  incredulity.  Despite  the  laws  that  for- 
bade Christians  to  carry  arms  in  Albania,  had  not  her 
ancestors  stalked  proudly  through  the  streets  bristling 
with  weapons?  Had  they  not  murdered  their  enemies 
how  and  where  they  pleased?  Did  not  the  feeble  Govern- 
ment wink  at  assassination,  the  very  gendarmes  cringing 
to  the  man  who  could  boast  of  a  foe  removed  by  yataghan 
or  pistol?  One  of  her  earliest  recollections  was  the  return 
of  her  notorious  uncle  after  a  week  passed  in  the  prosecu- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  17 

tion  of  a  blood-feud.  A  decapitated  head  had  dangled 
from  his  sash.  He  had  been  welcomed  with  admiring 
congratulations.  Even  so — her  parents  had  told  her  times 
without  number — would  she  be  received  when,  her  mission 
accomplished,  she  returned  to  her  native  village. 

She  was  roused  from  sombre  meditations  by  the  voice 
of  her  mother. 

"  The  light.     Zetitzka,  the  light!  " 

Zetitzka  strained  her  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  hamlet. 
There,  sure  enough,  in  the  pit  of  blackness,  was  a  tiny 
point  of  light.  Clasping  her  baby  to  her  breast,  and  fol- 
lowed by  the  old  woman,  she  began  to  descend  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  III 

SUPPER  in  the  Kahn  was  over.  The  men  had  squatted 
round  an  immense  fire  of  logs  piled  in  the  middle  of  the 
mud  floor;  they  had  cut  up  the  roasted  sheep  with  their 
yataghans,  torn  it  to  pieces  with  their  fingers,  crammed 
savoury  morsels  alternately  into  their  mouths  and  into 
their  saddlebags  as  a  contribution  towards  the  next  day's 
provisions.  Eaki  and  patoulis  (cakes  of  maize  cooked  in 
wood  ashes)  had  been  passed  around.  The  women  of  the 
party  had  herded  in  the  background  and  shared  with  the 
dogs  the  remains  of  the  feast.  Occasionally,  one  of  the 
men  had  tossed  a  bone  to  Zetitzka's  mother.  The  aged 
crone  had  grabbed  it  eagerly,  and,  holding  it  in  her  skinny 
hands,  had  sucked  at  it  with  toothless  chaps.  Sometimes 
the  bone  had  been  snatched  from  her  by  a  dog,  causing 
her  to  utter  shrill  cries  of  anger,  to  the  loud  amusement 
of  the  men. 

Zetitzka  had  been  unable  to  eat  more  than  a  few  mouth- 
fuls.  The  food  stuck  in  her  throat.  Shrinkingly  self- 
conscious,  she  had  tried  to  conceal  herself  behind  her 
mother,  but  the  fierce  light  of  the  fire,  seeming  to  point 
her  out,  made  all  efforts  at  concealment  vain.  Her  face 
attracted  the  unwelcome  admiration  of  the  men,  and  her 
child  the  equally  unwelcome  comments  of  the  women.  All 
seemed  to  know  her  story,  and  the  want  of  reticence  of 
her  mother  added  greatly  to  her  discomfiture. 

Two  people  only  took  compassion  on  her — Nik  Leka, 
the  pedlar,  and  the  wife  of  the  Khanje.  The  former  was 
a  little  wizened  old  man,  lame  from  a  gunshot  wound, 
and  blind  in  one  eye  from  the  cut  of  a  yataghan.  His 
fearlessness  was  talked  of  even  in  this  land  of  fearless  men. 
It  was  related  of  him,  that  being  set  upon  by  bandits  he 
had  killed  two  in  fair  fight  and  had  driven  the  third  be- 
fore him,  bound,  at  the  point  of  his  yataghan  to  the  nearest 
village.  Though  taciturn,  he  had  yet  the  gift  of  song, 
and  was  much  in  request  at  social  gatherings.  For  the 

18 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  19 

rest,  he  was  wild,  powerful,  dirty,  extremely  hairy,  un- 
kempt, a  shrewd  wit,  though  bluff  to  the  point  of  brutality, 
and,  like  a  sound  but  malformed  nut,  sweet  at  the  core. 

Taking  in  the  state  of  things  with  one  flash  of  his 
solitary  eye,  he  drew  attention  upon  himself  with  a  coarse 
jest  that  set  everyone  laughing. 

"  What  has  come  to  him?  "  chuckled  the  village  head- 
man, his  red  face  flaming  in  the  brandished  light  of  the 
fire.  "  'Tis  as  good  as  a  play." 

"  He  will  be  passing  his  hat  round  next,"  mumbled  the 
blacksmith,  gnawing  at  a  bone. 

"  Ay,  round  thee,"  grunted  Nik  Leka. 

And  the  laugh  was  universal,  for  the  close-fistedness  of 
the  smith  was  common  property. 

The  wife  of  the  Khanje,  who  had  been  occupied  in  turn- 
ing the  rough  spit  upon  which  the  sheep  had  been  impaled, 
beckoned  to  Zetitzka.  She  was  a  fine  woman  with  bare 
legs,  of  comely  proportions,  and  long  almond-shaped  eyes 
full  of  melancholy.  With  the  delicacy  of  perception, 
characteristic  of  her  race,  she  divined  the  wishes  of  her 
guest,  supplied  her  with  warm  goat's  milk  for  the  child, 
and  even  gave  the  two  women  permission  to  sleep  in  an 
adjoining  room,  where  they  would  obtain  privacy. 

Within  the  room  set  at  Zetitzka 's  disposal  the  darkness 
was  combated  by  the  red  light  of  the  log  fire  upon  which 
the  sheep  had  been  roasted.  This  came  to  her  in  slender 
shafts  between  the  rough  beams  that  composed  the  wall. 
The  smoke  had  filtered  in  through  the  same  interstices, 
and,  unable  to  find  an  exit,  hung  in  dense  clouds,  stinging 
the  eyes  and  impeding  the  breath. 

Laying  her  child  upon  her  cloak,  Zetitzka  stretched  her- 
self upon  the  mud  floor.  A  more  cheerless  and  uncom- 
fortable bedchamber  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine,  but 
Zetitzka,  thankful  to  escape  from  the  many  eyes,  was 
oblivious  to  her  surroundings. 

Many  noises  came  to  her  as  she  lay  open-eyed  in  the 
darkness.  The  voices  of  two  men  quarrelling  rose  high 
above  the  clamour.  One  of  them  she  recognised  as  that 
of  Shouma — a  Mahommedan  pervert.  He  had  been  semi- 
drunk  when  she  quitted  the  living-room.  She  remembered 
seeing  him  kneeling  with  raised  hands,  praying  in  a  loud 
voice  with  intense  and  passionate  earnestness,  swinging 


20  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 


backwards  and  forwards,  wringing  his  big  dirty  hands  in 
a  frenzy  of  religious  excitement,  falling  forward  to  kiss 
the  mud  floor,  then  rising  unconcernedly  to  drink  yet 
another  glass  of  raki.  The  other  was  Bektse  Tchotche,  an 
Arnaut  mountaineer;  she  knew  him  by  his  loud  ringing 
voice,  for  he  came  sometimes  to  talk  to  her  bedridden 
father. 

Nik  Leka  began  to  sing,  accompanying  himself  on  the 
guzle  or  Albanian  mandoline.  The  weird  vibrations  of  its 
one  string  sounded  uncanny  in  the  night,  blending  with 
the  rain  which  had  begun  to  fall,  and  now  beat  a  tattoo 
with  dull  thuds  upon  the  roof.  The  pedlar  sang  of  war 
and  victories  over  the  Karatag.  Deep  grunts  of  approval 
escaped  at  intervals  from  the  throats  of  his  auditors.  A 
peculiar  melancholy,  suggestive  of  death  and  also  of  sub- 
dued ferocity  wailed  in  the  sounds.  The  barbaric  music 
moved  Zetitzka  deeply,  stirred  something  in  her  breast, 
something  primitive  and  fierce  which  claimed  kindred  with 
the  dark  mountains  and  the  proud  and  lawless  race  from 
which  she  had  sprung.  While  she  listened  she  forgot  the 
smoke,  forgot  the  hardness  of  the  floor,  forgot  even  her 
baby  slumbering  by  her  side;  one  memory  alone  obsessed 
her — that  of  the  man  who  had  betrayed  her.  Her  wrongs 
unredressed,  always  smouldering,  now  blazed  into  a  white 
heat  of  recollection.  Without  speaking,  sb,e  lay  with 
clenched  fists,  watching  the  red  rays  and  the  filmy  smoke- 
clouds. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  sudden  entrance  of  her  mother. 

"  Think,  think,  Zetitzka!  "  she  stammered  in  her  ex- 
citement, "  I  am  to  have  plenty  of  money  in  two  years. 
I  will  buy  that  shawl,  and  a  blue  embroidered  handker- 
chief for  my  head,  like  the  one  we  saw  last  week.  Well, 
why  don't  you  speak?  " 
'  Who  told  you?  " 

"  The  entrails  of  the  sheep.  Nik  Leka  told  my  fortune 
by  them.  He  said  they  never  lie.  The  Khanje's  wife  is 
to  have  two  more  children.  Oh,  and  another  thing — 
some  enemy  of  ours  is  to  die  suddenly.  You  see!  You 
see!  I  told  you!  They  never  lie.  I  thought  of  you  at 
once.  It  will  all  come  out  right.  By  the  Virgin,  I  am 
glad!  " 

A  ray  of  red  light  rested  on   her.     Innumerable  and 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  21 

tiny  lines  of  shadow  crossed  and  recrossed  her  face,  and 
in  these  meshes  shone  two  bright  malevolent  eyes  that 
seemed  to  gleam  with  savage  joy.  Still  excited,  she 
moved  to  and  fro  like  some  restless  spirit.  The  dark- 
ness in  the  room  appeared  to  move  with  her  shadowy 
figure,  the  floor  to  sway  with  it,  while  outside  the  wind 
moaned  and  raved  fitfully. 

"  Won't  you  lie  down?  "  pleaded  Zetitzka.  But  her 
mother  paid  no  attention,  and  sometimes  from  one  part 
of  the  room  and  sometimes  from  another  came  mumbling 
and  breathless  ejaculations  about  the  shawl  and  the  blue 
handkerchief.  Little  by  little,  however,  she  calmed  down, 
and  at  last  in  droning  accents  Zetitzka  heard  the  words: 

"  O  Lord,  our  Father— Lord " 

' '  Don 't  pray !  ' '  cried  the  girl  in  a  tense  whisper,  rais- 
ing herself  upon  her  elbow. 

'Eh?    What's  the  matter?     Go  to  sleep." 

"  Don't  pray!  "  she  persisted.     "  I  can't  bear  it." 

"  It  may  bring  good  luck." 

' '  No,  no,  never !  It  is  horrible.  How  can  you !  God 
would  be  angry.  It  would  bring  a  curse." 

' '  Well,  how  odd  you  are !  I  never  can  understand  you. 
At  all  events  we  can  talk.  We  both  start  at  dawn,  eh?  " 

"  Yes." 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke.  Then  the  old  woman 
groaned. 

"  Oh,  Zetitzka,  I  won't  be  able  to  sleep;  the  floor  hurts 
my  bones.  Oh,  that  devil  of  a  pedlar,  is  he  going  to 
make  that  noise  all  night!  I  wish  I  had  my  hands  on  his 
windpipe." 

The  twang  of  the  guzle  throbbed  like  a  passionate  heart- 
beat. Somewhere  in  the  near  vicinity  a  dog  barked. 
Bark!  bark!  bark!  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  stop. 
The  noise  woke  the  baby.  It  began  to  cry. 

"  Sh-h,  my  precious,"  cooed  Zetitzka;  then  as  the  piti- 
ful wail  continued,  she  took  the  little  one  in  her  arms  and 
cradled  it  upon  her  breast. 

The  company  were  evidently  dispersing.  Zetitzka  could 
hear  the  gruff  voice  of  the  Khanje  raised  in  feigned  cor- 
diality, then  a  little  later  the  same  voice  in  a  surly  under- 
tone cursing  his  wife.  The  sound  of  subdued  sobbing 
came  through  the  logs.  In  the  silence  and  darkness  these 


22  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

audible  tears  did  Zetitzka  good,  for  they  spoke  to  her  of 
another's  sorrows. 

"  Have  you  the  knife?  " 

Zetitzka  started.  The  voice  of  her  mother  was  as  the 
croaking  of  some  ill-omened  bird  of  prey.  Rudely  recalled 
to  the  tragedy  that  overshadowed  her  own  life,  she  shud- 
dered. 

* '  Have  you  the  knife  ?  ' '  the  voice  repeated  impatiently. 

Zetitzka  muttered  an  affirmative. 

"  "Well,  why  don't  you  answer  at  once?  All  I  want  to 
say  is,  take  care  of  it,  for  'tis  beautifully  inlaid,  and  the 
handle  is  real  silver.  It  belonged  to  your  uncle,  as  you 
know;  and  so  did  the  clothes.  They  are  very  handsome. 
Zetitzka,  don't  go  to  sleep.  Tell  me,  what  did  that  pedlar 
say  about  the  monastery?  " 

Zetitzka  roused  herself  with  an  effort. 

"  What  did  he  say?     He  said  it  was  on  a  rock." 

"  Holy  saints,  that  is  foolish!  There  can  be  no  water 
there!  Well,  there  are  many  rocks;  I  hope  you  will  find 
the  right  one. ' ' 

There  came  no  answer.  Zetitzka 's  eyes  were  watching 
the  faint  red  rays  tracing  monstrous  patterns  upon  the 
wall. 

"  I  say  I  hope  you  find  the  right  one." 

"I  hope  so." 

Her  mother  made  a  clucking  of  her  toothless  gums  in 
the  darkness.  "  Ck — ck — that  is  so  like  you,  when  you 
know  nothing  about  it.  You  always  were  obstinate. 
Zetitzka,  are  you  listening?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  if  they  find  you  out?  " 

The  suggestion  was  full  of  vague  terror.  For  the  first 
time  Zetitzka  considered  the  danger  apart  from  her  re- 
venge. 

"  What  would  they  do  to  me?  "  she  whispered,  strain- 
ing wide  her  eyes  towards  the  huddled  figure  by  her  side. 

"  I  don't  know.  They  could  hardly  kill  you— «-and  yet 
— if  they  found  out  you  were  a  woman — but  of  course 
you  will  look  something  like  a  boy  in  these  clothes.  'Tis 
a  good  thing  you  have  been  ill  and  are  thin.  Now,  I  won- 
der what  it  is  like  up  there — on  that  rock.  All  men,  eh?  " 
The  monotonous  voice  broke  into  a  little  contemptuous 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  23 

screech  of  laughter.  ' '  A  pretty  state  of  affairs !  I  would 
like  to  see  your  poor  father  without  me  to  look  after  him. 
All  men,  and  perhaps  some  of  them  are  young?  What 

waste!     If  only  they  had  not  been  monks "     She  blew 

her  nose,  then  added  thoughtfully:  "  We  must  find  you 
a  husband  soon. ' ' 

"No!  no!  " 

"  But,  'tis  yes,  yes."  The  shrill  mimicking  tones  rose, 
then  sank,  as  the  old  woman  continued  in  a  swift,  fierce 
whisper:  "If  we  can  find  a  man  to  take  you  now — ay, 
you  know  what  I  mean!  Now,  don't  be  a  fool!  "  The 
skinny  fingers  clutched  the  soft  round  arm  and  shook  it 
angrily.  "  See  then — no  more  nonsense!  Holy  Virgin, 
we  have  had  too  much  already!  Haven't  I  listened  to 
these  women  to-night,  their  jeers,  their  titters — and  I — I 
smiled — God  forgive  me ! — when  I  was  itching  to  tear  their 
hearts  out.  And  all  for  you,  you  and  that  child!  Now 
we  will  have  no  more  mistakes.  This  is  your  one  chance 
of  being  looked  upon  -as  an  honest  woman — your  last — 
you  understand  ?  Answer  me !  ' ' 

"  Y-es." 

The  word  was  stifled,  for  Zetitzka's  face  was  buried 
in  her  hands.  The  old  woman  relaxed  her  grip.  She 
edged  nearer,  hitching  herself  along  the  floor.  Zetitzka 
could  hear  the  voice  mumbling  in  her  ear. 

"Do  it  quickly.  Run  no  risks.  A  woman  is  never  so 
strong  as  a  man.  I  have  heard  your  uncle  say  that  a  good 
place  is  just  below  the  shoulder-blade — there !  ' ' 

Zetitzka  gasped  as  she  felt  the  sudden  finger-thrust. 
A  darkness  spread  before  her  eyes,  compared  with  which 
the  darkness  in  the  room  was  as  sunshine.  This  plan- 
ning of  cold-blooded  murder  was  Altogether  foreign  to  her 
nature.  To  kill  him,  yes,  while  her  blood  ran  high  and 
the  memory  of  his  baseness  boiled  in  her  veins — but  to 
sit  still  and  scheme  and  gloat  in  anticipation — no ! 

The  voice  beside  her  continued: 

"  I  tell  you,  you  must,  or  never  show  your  face  again. 
Your  father  has  sworn  it.  Not  but  what  I  feel  for  you — • 

I  see  the  danger  to  a  girl 

Tis  not  that— 

"  What  is  it,  then?  Pooh,  you  can't  answer!  As  I 
said  before,  such  things  are  for  men — but  what  man? — 


24  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Zetitzka "     She  paused  as  though  struck  by  a  sudden 

idea,  then   added  meaningly:     "  Did  you  notice  Bektse 
Tchotche  to-night?  " 

"  Yes." 

' '  A  brave  fellow,  eh  ?    He  admires  you. ' ' 

The  memory  of  the  bold  eyes  of  the  mountaineer  caused 
her  a  shudder  of  repulsion.  He  had  stared  at  her  with 
insolent  familiarity,  appraising  her.  Her  mother's  voice 
continued,  scheming,  confidential: 

"  I  always  suspected  he  liked  you,  and  to-night  he  said 
you  were  a  fine  girl.  He  has  a  good  house.  Shall  I — 
shall  I  ask  him  to  do  it  for  you?  If  we  are  lucky  enough 
to  get  him  to  consent,  he  might  marry  you." 

Zetitzka  jerked  herself  to  a  sitting  attitude. 

"  Mother!  "  she  said  desperately. 

"  Eh?    What?  " 

"  If  you  do — if  you  do — as  God  sees  me,  I  will  never 
speak  to  you  again !  ' ' 

' '  Ch-a !  ' '  grunted  the  old  woman  angrily.  ' '  There  you 
are — always  impossible.  Well,  do  it  yourself.  I  wash  my 
hands  of  you!  "  She  continued  to  mumble  indignantly. 

The  light  waned,  for  the  logs  in  the  adjoining  room  had 
fallen  to  ashes.  The  music  came  to  an  abrupt  termina- 
tion. Only  the  dog  kept  up  an  incessant  clamour. 

Zetitzka  bent  over  her  baby.     The  pure  innocence  of  the 
little  one  was  like  a  tonic  to  her.     If  all  the  world  were 
only  thus!     She  longed  to   kiss  it  passionately,  but  re- 
frained: its  sleep  was  so  light.    With  her  ear  held  close 
she  could  hear  its  soft  breath  coming  and  going.     The  faint 
sound  was  like  tiny  hands  about  her  heart. 
Mother, ' '  she  whispered  after  a  long  pause. 
Well,  what  is  it?     I  was  nearly  asleep." 
You  will  be  good  to  baby  when  I  am  away  ?  ' ' 
Of  course." 

There  are  so  many  little  things — you  won't  forget? 
Make  his  milk  warm.     See  that  he 

' '  Ah,  you  are  not  too  proud  to  ask  a  favour !  And 
after  your  rudeness!  Some  folk  would  call  him  an  il- 
legitimate brat — ay,  and  see  him  starve  first,  'tis  true." 

Zetitzka  compressed  her  lips. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  do  all  for  the  best,"  she  said, 
quietly,  though  with  effort.  "  You  are  kinder  than  you 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  25 

appear.  You  love  him — I  know,  I  know  you  do!  Who 
could  help  it!  No  one,  not  even  the  devil,  would  be  so 
cruel  as  to  make  him  suffer  for — for 

She  broke  off,  for  she  could  no  longer  control  her  voice. 
Only  once  did  they  speak  again. 

' '  You  will  be  there  by  to-morrow  afternoon  ?  ' '  asked  the 
mother. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  daughter. 

Then  naught  but  the  snores  of  the  old  woman  broke 
the  silence.  But  sleep  did  not  come  to  Zetitzka.  Her 
brain,  abnormally  active,  revolved  in  her  hot  and  throb- 
bing head  with  the  torturing  persistency  of  a  machine. 
Goaded  by  it,  as  by  some  devilish  and  inhuman  motor- 
power,  she  was  forced  to  think,  and  think,  and  think.  Bit- 
ter and  hopeless  thoughts  gave  her  no  peace,  no  rest.  It 
was  in  the  silence  and  blackness  of  such  hours,  when  all 
the  world  seemed  dead,  that  she  suffered  most.  No  per- 
sonal fear  oppressed  her,  no  self-doubt  arose.  Only  in  her 
aching  and  desolate  heart  there  lurked  anguish  as  of  phys- 
ical pain.  From  time  to  time  as  she  lay  there  with  wide 
eyes  and  clenched  fists,  she  shuddered  and  moved  restlessly, 
setting  her  teeth  upon  a  groan,  striving  desperately  but 
vainly  to  break  away  from  the  relentless  and  galling 
memories  that  were  a  burning  fire  feeding  upon  her  very 
life. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  parting  between  mother  and  daughter  was  of  the 
briefest.  But  little  opportunity  for  further  confidences 
occurred — others  were  present,  and  the  risk  of  loitering 
in  the  village  street  while  the  blood-feud  lasted  drove  them 
into  the  open. 

"  When  you  change  your  clothes,"  whispered  the  old 
woman  at  the  moment  of  farewell,  "  wrap  those  you  are 
wearing  in  a  bundle  and  leave  it  where  you  will  be  sure  to 
find  it  again.  That  dress  cost  good  money.  Now,  Zetitzka, 
enough;  stop  kissing  your  baby.  Attend!  Be  careful  of 
your  uncle's  suit.  Don't  stain  it.  Now,  I  go;  give  me 
the  child." 

But  Zetitzka,  absorbed,  deaf,  in  a  mute  agony  of  grief, 
pressed  the  little  face  to  hers. 

"  Give  me  the  child,  I  say.  Wait,  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten— have  you  any  money?  No?  Here,  take  these." 

She  gave  a  handful  of  coins  to  her  daughter — a  hybrid 
collection  comprising  piastres,  a  couple  of  medijidies,  old 
Austrian  zwanzigers,  and  a  variety  of  metal  discs,  curious 
and  concave  in  shape,  all  of  which  pass  muster  in  Albania. 

Zetitzka  slipped  them  into  the  pocket  of  her  cloak  with 
indifference.  She  was  still  devouring  her  child  with 
hungry  eyes,  when,  with  an  exclamation  of  impatience  the 
old  woman  snatched  him  from  her  arms,  and  began  to  hobble 
up  the  hill  they  had  descended  the  previous  evening. 

In  a  moment  Zetitzka 's  feelings  changed  into  wild  sor- 
row. This  vengeful  journey  seemed  suddenly  to  yawn  be- 
fore her  as  a  gulf  separating  her  from  her  child.  She 
might  never  return.  Terror  of  the  unknown  seized  her, 
not  for  her  own  sake,  but  for  her  little  one's.  Rebellion 
against  Fate  boiled  up  in  her  heart.  She  longed  to  run 
after  the  retreating  figure,  to  overtake  it,  to  expostulate, 
to  implore,  to  defy.  But  the  irrevocable,  with  a  restrain- 
ing force  final  as  death,  chained  her  to  the  spot. 

A  figure  of  stone  she  stood  in  the  beating  sunshine, 

26 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  27 

straining  her  eyes  to  see  the  last  of  the  little  bundle  in 
her  mother 's  arms.  But  all  at  once  the  familiar  form  climb- 
ing the  hill  blurred  unexpectedly,  and  Zetitzka  became 
conscious  of  hot  and  stinging  tears  trickling  down  her 
cheeks.  . 

Then,  with  swift  revulsion  of  feeling,  she  again  recalled 
Stephanos.  Fiercely  she  dashed  her  tears  aside.  This, 
too,  she  owed  to  him!  Great  God,  how  he  had  made  her 
suffer,  this  man!  Anger,  bitterness,  and  feelings  goaded 
past  endurance  seethed  within  her. 

"  Stay,"  cried  a  hoarse  voice. 

Zetitzka  looked  up.  Hobbling  along  the  path  that  led 
to  the  village  came  Nik  Leka.  An  immense  pack  bound 
upon  his  back  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  tortoise. 
Beneath  it  his  little  legs  moved  with  extraordinary 
rapidity.  When  he  joined  her,  his  arms  slipped  out  of 
the  shoulder-straps ;  then,  having  deposited  the  bundle  upon 
the  ground,  he  peered  into  her  face. 

"  Crying!  "  He  pointed  a  coarse  and  accusing  fore- 
finger at  her;  then,  wagging  his  dirty  fez,  "  Oh,  these 
women,  these  women !  ' ' 

Zetitzka  looked  at  him  darkly. 

' '  That  is  not  all. ' '  He  continued  to  glare  at  her  fiercely 
from  beneath  his  shaggy  eyebrows.  "  Where  are  you  go- 
ing? 

"  I  know,"  he  went  on  roughly,  as  she  remained  silent. 
"  No  need  to  tell  me  lies.  She,"  he  jerked  his  head  to- 
wards the  hill,  "  she  told  me  last  night.  I  did  not  be- 
lieve her.  I  tell  lies  myself,  all  in  the  way  of  business. 
But  now — Sacred  Name,  she  has  left  you,  the  old  one?  n 

"  I  go  alone,"  she  answered. 

He  breathed  like  one  furious,  yet  Zetitzka  felt  instinc- 
tively that  it  was  not  at  her  his  mute  rage  was  directed. 

"  Madness,"  he  blurted  out  at  length.  "  Madness,  I 
tell  you.  These  parents  of  yours — I  shall  give  your  father 
a  bit  of  my  mind.  What  are  they  thinking  of — to  send 
you  there.  Bah,  you  do  not  know!  " 

"I  know." 

"  The  danger?  " 

"  Yes." 

' '  But — they  allow  no  woman  there !  I  have  never  been 
myself,  but  I  know.  They  are  wild  men — fanatics — 


28  FORBIDDEN  GKOUND 

capable  of — does  one  know?  You  will  be  all  alone — you, 
a  girl — do  you  understand  that?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  gaped  at  her  incredulously,  then  snapped  his  thick 
fingers. 

"  No,  you  do  not  understand.  I  tell  you  it  makes  me 
afraid — me,  Nik  Leka.  While  you " 

His  quick,  bright  eye  searched  her  face  with  a  puzzled 
frown.  Her  absence  of  fear  seemed  to  strike  him  in  the 
light  of  a  personal  grievance. 

As  they  stood  thus,  a  sudden  fusillade  rang  out — a 
dropping  fire  from  the  scattered  houses — and  "  ping  " 
above  their  heads  sang  a  stray  bullet.  The  pedlar  glared 
in  the  direction  of  the  village. 

"  Curse  them  all!  "  he  muttered;  then,  with  an  ex- 
planatory shrug,  "  'Tis  so  bad  for  trade."  He  gnawed 
his  moustache  for  a  moment,  then  burst  out  with  fresh 
rancour:  "  You  do  not  think  to  bring  that  ne'er-do-well 
back?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  To— to  tell  him  of  the  child,  eh!  " 

"  No." 

"No?    What  then?" 

She  did  not  explain.  He  muttered  something  into  his 
grizzled  beard,  of  which  she  caught  only  the  words 
"  monk  "  and  "  devil."  Then  asked: 

' '  To  see  him,  I  suppose  ?  ' ' 

"Yes." 

He  raised  his  hands  to  heaven.  He  appeared  to  be 
mentally  requesting  that  silent  witness  to  have  patience. 
Then,  eyeing  her  resentfully : — 

' '  All  that  way  ?  And  in  the  face  of  so  great  a  danger  ? 
Yes,  danger,  for  I  know  what  is  in  your  parcel.  And  you 
think  to  pass  for  a  man?  To  deceive  them?  And  you 
think  he  is  worth  that  risk?  He!  "  Clearing  his  throat, 
he  spat  his  contempt  noisily  after  the  manner  of  the  base- 
born.  Then  with  a  shrug,  "  But,  after  all,  that  is  what 
it  is  to  be  a  woman !  And  which  of  us  is  worth  it  ? 
Which,  I  ask  you?  Name  of  thunder,  if  you  women  could 
only  see  us  as  we  are.  But  there — that  would  be  the  end 
of  the  world.  Women?  I  know  them,  I,  Nik  Leka.  Oh 
yes,  I've  had  them  in  love  with  me." 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  29 

He  raised  his  fez,  whether  out  of  respect  to  memories, 
or  because  the  morning  was  warm,  could  not  be  deter- 
mined. "  "Pis  true,"  he  insisted,  puzzled  at  her  preoccu- 
pation. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  she  said  in  a  lifeless  voice. 

"  Wait,"  he  cried,  and  began  to  fumble  in  his  pack. 
The  object  of  his  search  was  apparently  buried  deep.  At 
length  he  clicked  loudly  with  his  tongue.  "  There!  "  he 
exclaimed. 

Zetitzka  gazed  with  sombre  indifference  at  the  gaudy 
little  housewife  held  out  for  her  inspection. 

"  For  you,"  he  muttered,  as  though  ashamed.  His  man- 
ner of  giving  had  all  the  awkwardness  of  his  class.  "  You 
had  better  take  it,"  he  continued  gruffly,  "  before  I  re- 
pent." 

She  thanked  him;  unused  to  kindness  she  was  touched 
in  spite  of  herself.  He  essayed  to  make  light  of  the  gift, 
though  it  was  obvious  that  its  bright  cover,  embroidered 
with  beads,  filled  him  personally  with  the  liveliest  admira- 
tion. 

"  Why  did  you  give  it  to  me?  "  Zetitzka  asked,  the 
housewife  still  in  her  hand. 

"  Why?  "  He  raised  his  eyebrows,  scratched  his  griz- 
zled head,  then  triumphantly,  "  For  an  advertisement." 

He  laughed  aloud  with  cynical  satisfaction.  "  I  give 
them  to  everyone,"  he  chuckled,  then  paused,  an  anxious 
gleam  in  his  one  eye,  but  she  did  not  detect  the  falsehood. 
"  To  everyone,"  he  repeated  emphatically.  "  One  thinks 
of  oneself.  It  pays.  Some  day  you  will  marry  and  have 
a  house.  You  will  need  buttons,  and  needles,  and  knit- 
ting pins.  It  will  then  be  your  turn  to  think  of  me. ' ' 

When  she  left  him  a  moment  later,  he  stood  staring  after 
her.  She  walked  with  bent  head,  absorbed  in  thought. 
But  not  even  this  meditative  attitude  could  detract  from 
the  free,  swinging  movements,  the  unconscious  pride  of 
race  in  carriage  and  lilt. 

His  own  lameness  occurred  to  the  pedlar  as  he  gazed, 
and  he  gave  vent  to  a  short  growl;  but,  to  do  the  little 
man  justice,  all  personal  considerations  were  driven  from 
his  mind  by  sympathy  and  admiration  for  this  girl,  lonely 
and  unprotected,  yet  resolute  in  the  face  of  a  grave  danger. 

The  sun  rose,  turning  the  waiting  world  into  something 


30  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

bright  and  beautiful.  Pearl-grey  mists  that  had  lurked  all 
night  in  the  deeper  folds  of  the  hills  wavered,  broke,  and 
fled.  The  exquisite  freshness  and  clarity  of  the  summer 
morning  steeped  all  things — the  nearer  hills  and  the  more 
distant  mountains — in  an  atmosphere  of  exhilaration.  A 
bird  sprang  upwards  from  behind  a  rock,  and  mounting  on 
palpitating  wings,  poured  forth  its  soul  in  song.  Between 
the  stones,  in  the  rare  spaces  of  greenery,  tiny  flowers 
expanded  dewy  petals  to  the  sun.  The  distance  beckoned 
alluringly,  like  hopes  too  dear  ever  to  be  realised.  A 
white  cloud  sailed  overhead — a  drifting  brightness  in  the 
dreams  of  morning. 

But  Zetitzka  was  deaf  to  the  lark — blind  to  the  sun- 
shine— unresponsive  to  the  glad  voices  that  called  to  her 
from  the  newly-awakened  world.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  stones  at  her  feet;  mechanically  they  showed 
her  where  to  walk,  what  to  avoid,  like  servants  discharg- 
ing a  duty  of  which  they  themselves  were  barely  con- 
scious. Her  red  cloak  focussed  the  fierce  sunlight  and 
glowed  out  against  the  dun  hills  like  an  avenging  flame. 

Towards  afternoon  she  reached  Kalabaka.  The  heat  was 
great.  Not  a  breath  of  air  counteracted  the  fierce  rays  of 
the  sun.  The  aloes,  skirting  the  track,  reared  their  spear- 
like  points  into  the  deep  and  burnished  blue  of  the  sky, 
their  pale  green  foliage  powdered  thickly  with  white  dust. 
The  little  village  lay  before  her  sweltering  in  sunlight. 
She  looked  at  it  with  a  curious  lack  of  interest.  The 
streets  were  deserted ;  only  under  the  tattered  awning  that 
protected  a  cafe  hard  by  the  railway  station,  several  men 
were  to  be  seen  drinking.  They  eyed  her  with  curiosity 
as  she  approached,  and  one  nudged  a  neighbour  to  draw 
attention  to  her  face. 

Faint  from  exhaustion  and  want  of  food,  she  seated  her- 
self at  one  of  the  little  wooden  tables.  The  eyes  of  the 
men,  all  turned  in  her  direction,  made  her  uncomfortable. 
In  a  low,  hurried  voice  she  ordered  coffee  and  bread. 
When  the  refreshments  came,  she  could  not  eat,  but  the 
thick  Turkish  coffee  revived  her.  The  waiter  examined 
the  coin  she  proffered,  bit  it,  rung  it  on  the  table,  then 
regretfully  and  as  one  acting  under  compulsion  shook  his 
head.  She  gave  him  another.  When  he  brought  the 
change,  she  inquired: 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  31 

How  far  is  it  to  Hagios  Barlaam  ?  ' ' 
Barlaam?  "  he  repeated,  in  surprise. 
Yes.     How  far  is  it?  " 
Oh — a  good  hour. ' ' 
Which  way  must  one  go  ?  " 

Which  way?  "    He  stared  at  her.    "  Why,  there  it 
is!  " 

He  pointed  over  her  shoulder.  Turning,  she  followed 
his  finger.  The  great  buttress  towers  of  Meteora  upreared 
themselves  in  the  background.  The  one  indicated  by  the 
waiter  was  the  second  loftiest  pinnacle.  Perched  upon 
its  crest  Zetitzka  could  see  grey  buildings,  reduced  by  dis- 
tance to  a  tiny  huddle  of  roofs.  Her  eyes  dilated  as  she 
gazed.  She  had  lo  put  a  strong  curb  on  her  feelings  to 
suppress  her  intense  yet  painful  interest  in  the  place. 

"  That  is  Barlaam,"  continued  the  waiter  in  the  pleased 
tone  with  which  some  people  impart  information. 
"  Meteora  is  further  to  the  left.  Hagios  Stephanos  is  the 
one  you  see  up  there,  on  the  right.  Hagios  Triada  is  back, 
right  back  there ;  one  cannot  see  it  from  here. ' ' 

The  name  Stephanos  set  every  nerve  ajar.  It  was  as 
though  a  rough  finger  had  touched  an  open  sore. 

"  You  cannot  be  going  there?  "  said  the  waiter  with 
conviction,  brushing  imaginary  crumbs  from  the  table. 
"  They  do  not  allow  women  to  visit  Barlaam." 

He  had  to  repeat  his  remark  twice,  for  she  sat  as  one 
in  a  dream,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  remote  pinnacle  upon 
which  lived  the  man  she  had  come  to  seek. 

She  did  not  reply. 

"You  are  without  doubt  a  stranger?  "  hazarded  the 
waiter,  with  unspoken  admiration  in  his  eyes. 

11  Yes." 

"  That  is  seen.  The  saints  reward  you."  He  pocketed 
the  small  coin  which  she  pushed  to  him  across  the  table. 
Then,  "  You  do  not  eat  your  bread?  " 

"No."  She  rose  to  her  feet.  "  Do  I  follow  that 
road?  " 

"  To  Barlaam,  you  mean?  " 

"Yes." 

"  That  is  the  way.  You  cannot  mistake  the  path. 
You  will  find  it  rough.  Would  you  like  a  mule?  I  can 
get  you  one  in  ten  minutes." 


32  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  No,  I  will  walk.     Good-day." 

She  passed  quickly  along  the  village  street.  Before  she 
gained  the  open  she  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  the  women 
congregated  around  the  village  fountain,  but  heedless  of 
comment  she  continued  to  climb. 

The  path,  ascending  steeply,  coiled  upwards,  now  travers- 
ing the  bed  of  a  torrent  sucked  dry  by  the  thirsty  summer, 
and  again,  mounting  in  steps  fashioned  roughly  out  of 
boulders.  Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  cliffs.  They 
frowned  down  upon  her,  oppressing  her.  In  some  shadowy 
way  they  even  entered  into  her  thoughts.  Broken  memo- 
ries, dark  forebodings  hastened  to  her,  the  roots  of  which 
lay  deep  in  the  soil  of  sex. 

All  day  she  had  been  moving  as  in  a  dream,  barely 
conscious  of  her  surroundings — save  when  the  waiter  had 
pointed  out  the  heights  of  Barlaam.  But  now  she  awoke 
with  a  start,  recalled  to  actuality  by  the  glitter  of  sunlight 
reflected  from  a  window  far  overhead.  It  seemed  to  be  an 
eye  watching  her.  In  a  flash  everything  became  real;  the 
rocks,  the  path,  the  cliffs,  all  became  endowed  with  ab- 
normal importance,  as  though  they  had  been  waiting  for 
centuries  to  witness  something  terrible,  vaguely  connected 
with  her  fate.  With  a  shudder  she  realised  herself  in- 
tensely, every  nerve  strung  up,  every  faculty  alert. 

With  a  swift  glance  on  all  sides  she  sought  the  shelter  of 
two  adjacent  rocks  that  formed  a  small  open-air  chamber. 

The  place  she  had  chosen  lay  on  the  left  of  the  path  that 
coiled  upwards  to  the  monasteries.  The  rocks  that  formed 
it  were  great  boulders  that  had  toppled  down  from  the  high 
cliffs  long  ages  ago,  and  now  lay  piled  up,  arrested  for 
ever  amid  the  chaos  of  lesser  stones,  the  companions  of  their 
fall. 

More  than  once  Zetitzka  anxiously  scrutinised  the  path 
and  the  sea  of  rocks  weltering  in  sunlight.  No  one  was 
in  sight.  All  was  still,  inanimate,  given  over  to  hot,  quiver- 
ing air  that  ebbed  and  flowed  in  the  midst  of  a  profound 
silence,  with  the  transparency  and  something  of  the  fluidity 
of  water. 

Slightly  reassured,  but  still  full  of  misgivings,  Zetitzka 
began  to  undress.  In  all  her  movements  haste  was  dis- 
cernible, haste  that  thwarted  itelf,  for  her  hands  shook. 
At  length,  clad  only  in  scanty  under-garments,  she  stood 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  33 

trembling  with  apprehension  among  the  grey,  sun-baked 
rocks.  For  just  one  fleeting  moment  she  listened  and 
gazed,  and  held  her  breath,  her  eyes  full  of  the  tragic  im- 
port of  her  task;  then,  opening  the  bundle  that  contained 
her  uncle 's  clothes,  she  made  haste  to  put  them  on. 

The  costume  was  simple  and  workmanlike — its  fabric 
white  homespun.  The  white  skull-cap  sat  loosely  upon  her 
head.  The  white  jacket,  its  tight  sleeves  reaching  to  the 
wrist,  was  ornamented  with  black  braid,  as  were  the  trou- 
sers. The  latter,  baggy  behind,  but  close  fitting  to  the  leg, 
were  many  sizes  too  large.  A  touch  of  bright  colour  was 
imparted  by  a  scarlet  sash.  Over  this  Zetitzka  adjusted  the 
belt  of  soft  leather,  with  pouch  in  front  and  tassels  of 
black  silk,  in  which  her  uncle  had  carried  his  long,  beauti- 
fully-worked pistols  and  yataghan,  or  Turkish  dagger.  Her 
own  leathern  belt,  ornamented  with  pins,  and  her  necklet 
of  antique  coins,  she  thrust  into  the  pocket  of  her  woollen 
dress. 

Standing  erect  in  her  new  costume,  her  hand  fell  natu- 
rally upon  the  hilt  of  the  yataghan.  Acting  on  impulse, 
she  drew  it  from  its  sheath.  Its  blade,  catching  the  light, 
became  a  cruel  suggestion  of  violent  death.  She  touched 
it  with  the  point  of  her  forefinger,  absently,  for  her  eyes, 
brooding  and  preoccupied,  saw  only  the  face  of  the  man 
she  once  had  loved.  Her  recollections  were  steeped  in  a 
dumb,  passive  misery.  Sick  at  heart,  she  looked  back  across 
a  gulf  of  pain  to  gleams  of  hope  and  moments  of  happiness. 
Then  she  had  been  young  and  trusting;  then  life  had 
seemed  a  promise  of  joy.  Now  she  felt  old  and  infinitely 
weary;  her  heart  was  stone — the  future  was  dark.  And 
the  man  ?  She  had  been  his  victim,  and  now  he  was  to  be 
hers.  The  grim  justice  of  his  sentence  appealed  to  the 
primitive  instincts  of  her  upbringing.  She  thought  of  him 
on  one  of  these  shimmering  heights.  Was  he  thinking  of 
her,  and  of  the  death  that  so  surely  awaited  him  ?  He  had 
once  said:  "  This  night  is  my  soul  demanded  of  me." 
How  true  this  was  now !  Before  another  sun  could  rise  he 
would  be  dead.  Death !  She  had  seen  it  many  times.  Fa- 
miliarity had  robbed  it  of  horror.  Even  violent  death  had 
never  shocked  her.  It  was  natural  for  a  man  to  die  stand- 
ing. Less  than  ever  now  did  she  think  of  it  as  a  fate  to 
be  pitied.  It  meant  peace  and  freedom  from  suffering. 

3 


34  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

She  almost  envied  him.  And  this  gift  was  hers  to  bestow. 
It  depended  only  upon  this — this  little  bit  of  steel  she  held 
in  her  hands.  One  thrust —  But  at  the  thought  an  in- 
voluntary shudder  ran  through  her.  Vaguely  disquieted, 
she  returned  the  weapon  hastily  to  its  sheath. 

She  was  about  to  leave  her  hiding-place  when  an  idea 
struck  her.  Raising  her  arms,  she  drew  out  the  pins  that 
upheld  her  hair.  Like  a  cloud  it  fell  about  her  shoulders, 
reaching  below  her  waist.  Its  colour  was  blue-black,  shin- 
ing with  a  changeful  glow,  bright  with  somewhat  of  the 
brightness  of  metal,  yet  soft  as  floating  gossamer.  From  a 
child  Zetitzka  had  heard  its  praises.  Even  her  mother  had 
taken  a  proprietary  pleasure  in  combing  it.  But  now  it 
seemed  to  her  nothing  but  an  obstacle.  Taking  a  pair  of 
scissors  from  her  bundle,  she  attacked  it  without  mercy. 
In  a  few  minutes  it  lay  at  her  feet. 

Concealing  her  severed  hair  and  cast-off  clothing  behind 
a  rock,  she  moved  from  the  shadow  of  the  cliff.  As  she 
did  so  she  gave  a  gasp,  for  there,  on  the  path  within  a 
dozen  yards,  stood  a  monk. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  figure  that  struck  consternation  into  Zetitzka's  heart 
was  dressed  in  the  sombre  garb  of  a  Greek  priest — the  long, 
double-breasted  black  cassock,  the  rude  sandals,  and  the  tall 
black  hat  terminating  in  a  curious  rim  at  the  top. 

A  young  man,  apparently,  for  both  face  and  figure  were 
youthful :  an  attractive  face,  for  the  vivacity  natural  to  his 
years  was  sobered  by  a  thoughtful  simplicity,  stamped 
doubtless  by  monastic  life, 

Zetitzka  paused  irresolute. 

A  monk !  Had  he  seen  her  ?  Did  he  suspect  ?  But  the 
young  man  was  gazing  at  her  with  nothing  but  curiosity  in 
his  eyes. 

"  God  speed  you,  my  brother!  " 

His  voice  rang  out  cheerfully,  its  clear  boyish  tones 
strangely  at  variance  with  his  attire.  Zetitzka  returned  his 
salutation  inaudibly.  He  approached  her  where  she  stood 
in  the  beating  sunshine  of  the  path.  From  under  down- 
cast lashes  she  noticed  with  relief  that  his  expression  was 
friendly. 

"  Do  you  come  from  Kalabaka?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  shortly. 

"  Ah!  methought  not.  Never  wittingly  have  I  set  eyes 
on  you  before.  Methinks  I  know  by  sight  all  the  folk  in 
Kalabaka.  Ay,  a  stranger — and  your  cassock — nay,  tunic 
I  would  say — and  your  little  cap,  and  your  brave  trousers ! 
Nay,  turn  not  away:  no  call  to  feel  shame;  they  are  won- 
drous handsome.  Oh,  la,  la!  "  He  was  fingering  with 
nai've  and  childlike  familiarity  the  black  braiding  of  her 
jacket.  "  This  pleaseth  me  right  well.  I  have  naught  so 
brave  as  this.  By  Saint  Jerome !  'tis  cunningly  fashioned, 
fine  as  any  vestment.  But — whither  go  you?  " 

Zetitzka  looked  up  at  him  swiftly.  He  was  a  new  expe- 
rience to  her.  His  quaint  biblical  phraseology  sounded 
strange  within  her  ears — strange,  too,  coming  from  one  so 
essentially  boyish.  But  his  unusual  friendliness  and  lack 

35 


36  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

of  reserve  awoke  her  suspicions.  No  countryman  of  hers 
would  behave  thus.  He  was  a  monk — perhaps  one  of  the 
same  brotherhood  to  which  Stephanos  belonged;  it  be- 
hoved her  therefore  to  be  on  her  guard.  Her  mind,  attuned 
to  dark  thoughts,  felt  hostile  to  all  strangers.  Still,  as  she 
looked  at  him,  his  expression  and  the  guileless  simplicity  in 
his  eyes  went  far  to  disarm  her.  After  all,  why  not  tell 
him  ?  He  seemed  friendly ;  he  might  prove  of  use. 

"  To  Hagios  Barlaam,"  she  said  gravely. 

His  good,  honest,  young  countenance  lit  up  in  pleased 
surprise. 

"  But "    He  stammered  in  his  eagerness.     "  /  hail 

from  Hagios  Barlaam!  'Tis  wondrous  strange,  to  meet 
you  here.  Past  all  question  my  good  saint  has  arranged 
this.  You  pleased  me  the  moment  I  saw  you.  You  see,  we 
meet  few  strangers." 

As  though  conscious  of  her  bewilderment,  his  last  words 
partook  of  the  nature  of  an  apology.  At  his  invitation  she 
joined  him,  and  side  by  side  they  proceeded  towards  the 
monastery.  The  conversation  was  one-sided.  The  boy 
talked  freely,  exhilarated  by  this  chance  encounter,  by  the 
sun,  the  air,  the  exercise ;  unaffectedly  glad,  it  would  seem, 
to  have  met  someone  of  his  own  age  to  whom  he  could  chat- 
ter without  the  restrictions  imposed  by  monastic  life. 
Zetitzka  was  silent,  rarely  opening  her  lips  save  in  reply, 
turning  a  deaf  ear  to  his  rapid  and  disjointed  talk,  save 
where  it  immediately  concerned  herself. 

At  length  came  the  inevitable  question  which  the  girl  had 
foreseen  and  feared. 

"  Why  do  you  go  to  Barlaam?  " 

It  found  her  unprepared.  Scorning  to  prevaricate,  she 
remained  silent. 

"  A  pilgrim?  "  suggested  her  young  companion,  with 
deep  interest. 

She  shook  her  head.  He  seemed  disappointed :  pilgrims 
evidently  forming  one  of  the  diversions  of  his  monotonous 
life.  Then,  suddenly,  he  uttered  a  pleased  ejaculation. 

I  have  it!  "  he  cried,  bending  forward  to  look  more 
closely  at  her;  "  I  see  it  in  your  face." 

She  was  painfully  conscious  of  confusion.  He  continued 
cheerfully. 

'  The  reason  you  come  here.     'Tis  sorrow. ' ' 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  37 

Zetitzka  was  thankful  that  the  stony  nature  of  the  path 
gave  her  an  excuse  for  averting  her  eyes.  But  her  new 
companion,  walking  briskly  at  her  side,  seemed  to  require 
no  answer. 

' '  You  are  young  to  have  a  sorrow. ' '  He  spoke  musingly, 
and  almost,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  with  a  respectful  admira- 
tion. Then :  * '  But  you  will  assuredly  find  comfort  in 
Barlaam.  Wait  only  till  you  have  talked  with  our  Abbot. 
He  will  do  you  good." 

Struck  by  the  melancholy  incredulity  in  her  face,  he  con- 
tinued with  heat: 

"  It  is  true.  By  Saint  Barlaam,  he  is  a  saint!  Wise, 
devout,  good — never  was  such  an  Abbot!  If  only  I 

could What!  You  have  never  heard  tell  of  him! 

Kyrie  Eleison!  " 

As  if  to  put  her  at  her  ease,  he  continued  with  patronage, 
yet  not  without  a  touch  of  visible  anxiety : 

"  You  will  become  one  of  us;  yes?  " 

As  she  looked  at  him  with  brooding  eyes,  wherein  the  least 
observant  might  have  read  her  mental  distress,  he  came 
nearer,  saying  confidentially: 

"  Look  you,  the  brethren  are  well  on  in  years — of  high 
repute  and  sanctity  assuredly,  worthy  of  reverence  indeed, 
but  aged.  I  like  them  all — or  nearly  all.  And  as  for  our 
Abbot — but  there,  I  cannot  speak  of  my  feelings  for  him. 
But  between  ourselves,  old  folk  are — well,  they  do  not  re- 
member what  it  is  to  be  young.  You  see,  they  cannot  do 
things:  they  want  to  walk,  when  we  want  to  run — that  is 
the  difference." 

He  laughed  gaily,  as  though  the  mere  act  of  unbosoming 
himself  afforded  relief,  kicked  a  stone  lustily  from  the  path ; 
then,  the  question  suddenly  occurring  to  him : 

"  What  is  your  name?  " 

"  Call  me  Angelos,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"  Your  real  name?  "  he  questioned. 

"No." 

"  Well,  it  matters  not.  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  wish 

to  know,  but "  She  saw  him  shrug  his  shoulders ;  then 

he  continued  in  a  graver  voice:  "  The  Abbot  says  that 
our  past  belongs  to  God,  and  that  when  one  joins  the  mon- 
astery one  begins  a  new  life.  That  must  be  the  reason  you 
have  changed  your  name.  Oh,  many  come  to  us  in  sorrow ; 


38  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

some  abide  always,  and  some,  coming  but  for  a  space,  de- 
part comforted.  I  wonder  which  you  will  do  ?  As  for  me, 
I  am  Brother  Petros,  and  have  never  been  aught  else,"  he 
sighed  discontentedly.  "  More  than  anything  in  the  world 
would  I  love  to  have  a  real  sorrow  and  two  names.  But 
what  good? — I  am  known  unto  all  here." 

"  Do  not  wish  it!  "  she  cried  impulsively. 

He  seemed  already  to  have  forgotten  his  grievance,  for 
he  had  sprung  to  a  boulder,  his  black  robe  snapping  in  the 
light  breeze,  his  shadow,  long  and  thin,  flung  forward  along 
the  track.  The  incongruity  of  his  monkish  garb  with  his 
agile  boyish  movements  struck  Zetitzka  afresh. 

"  You  will  tell  me  all  about  the  world?  "  he  questioned 
eagerly  when  she  joined  him.  "  I  have  seen  marvellous 
little,  but  I  joy  in  hearing  of  it.  Do  you  know  it  well? 
It  must  be  a  wondrous  big  place;  but  woefully  wicked,  so 
they  say.  Have  a  heed  to  that  stone.  Brother  Nicodemus 
broke  his  leg  once,  but  the  Holy  Virgin  healed  it  in  a 
week.  Dimitri — he  is  our  muleteer — says  it  was  only 
strained ;  but  I  ask  of  you,  would  the  Blessed  Mother  appear 
in  a  midnight  vision  for  a  mere  strain  ?  Do  I  go  too  fast  ? 
The  Venerable  Father  calls  me  a  goat.  I  love  climbing,  and 
precipices.  And  you  ?  No  ?  Ah,  that  is  because  you  have 
not  been  standing  in  a  stall  since  midnight — 

"  Since  midnight!  "  she  echoed,  roused  into  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Past  question.  Did  you  not  know  that  it  was  the  fes- 
tival of  Saint  Panteleemon?  The  good  saint  would  in  no 
wise  be  pleased  did  we  not  stand  for  at  least  two  hours 
longer  than  usual.  Well,  you  have  been  journeying :  doubt- 
less that  unsettles  one's  thoughts.  Yea,  it  was  a  long  serv- 
ice, though  'tis  sinful  to  say  so.  My  stall  is  between 
Brothers  Nicodemus  and  Gerasimos.  They  are  both  very 
old — sixty,  I  believe.  I  find  their  places  for  them;  but 
Brother  Nicodemus  is  always  grumbling  that  he  cannot 
hear  the  reader,  and  Brother  Gerasimos  is  for  ever  falling 
asleep. ' ' 

^  There  was  a  spontaneity  about  his  chatter  that  was  dis- 
tinctly engaging.  Unexpectedness,  indeed,  was  his  dom- 
inant characteristic.  The  attire,  quaint  and  outlandish, 
suggested  only  age  and  monastic  austerity ;  yet  here  it  was 
allied  to  youth  and  something  that  irresistibly  called  to 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  39 

mind  the  old  pagan  joy  of  living.  He  was  full  of  simple  and 
unconscious  gaiety,  skipping,  as  it  were,  on  the  hills  of  life. 
This  gaiety  appeared  to  be  his  cardinal  quality.  One  felt 
that  it  was  immensely  natural,  born  of  no  infection,  no  echo 
in  remembered  word  or  gesture  of  the  light-heartedness  of 
others;  but  young  life  bubbling  up  in  him,  as  obedient  to 
natural  laws  as  a  brook  dancing  to  the  sea  or  sap  rising  to 
greet  the  spring. 

Borne  along  as  she  was  by  the  flood  of  his  conversation, 
Zetitzka  never  for  one  moment  lost  sight  of  the  grim  task 
that  awaited  her.  It  formed  a  dark  background  to  all  she 
saw  and  heard.  Even  this  boy  seemed  connected  with  it — 
an  illusion  doubtless  due  to  his  calling.  And  yet  he — she 
reflected,  as  her  eyes  rested  darkly  on  his  ingenuous  young 
face — had  never  known  sorrow.  And  at  the  reflection  a 
great  envy  rose  up  within  her. 

They  rounded  a  barrier  of  cliff  and  came  within  full  sight 
of  the  pillar-like  rocks  of  Meteora.  With  an  involuntary 
exclamation,  Zetitzka  came  to  an  abrupt  standstill. 

At  that  hour  something  almost  unnatural  haunted  the 
mighty  obelisks  as  with  an  atmosphere,  bequeathing  to 
them  an  air  of  abnormality.  Silent  and  grim,  they  towered 
from  the  gloom  of  the  gorge.  It  was  as  though  some  Titan 
had  fashioned  obelisk  after  obelisk  with  an  axe,  shaping 
their  perpendicular  flanks  with  mighty  blows,  trimming 
here  a  cliff,  there  a  precipice,  carving  each  on  its  every  side 
into  awful  inaccessibility,  till  each  loomed  out  lonely,  prim- 
eval, eternal,  the  roost  of  the  sunbeams,  the  playground  of 
the  storms. 

In  some  places  the  cliffs  shone  with  a  bright  metallic 
lustre,  as  though  of  beaten  gold;  in  others  they  receded 
sunless  and  chill  into  fearsome  depths,  mysterious  with  the 
gloom  of  caverns.  Seen  through  the  obscurity  the  rocks 
assumed  strange  and  fantastic  shapes.  Monstrous  figures 
might  be  imagined  looming  mistily  on  the  sight,  vanishing 
at  length  in  ghostly  perspective.  All  were  dead,  long,  long 
dead.  Around  their  knees  surged  grey  rocks,  an  endless 
and  chaotic  multitude,  faintly  visible,  tumultuous  and  vast 
as  a  sea  of  upturned  faces.  On  all  sides,  save  the  narrow 
entrance  to  the  gorge,  the  cliffs,  towering  grimly  upwards, 
hemmed  them  in.  The  wan  sunlight  gilding  the  topmost 
crags  served  but  to  emphasise  the  gloom  below,  for  no  mes- 


40  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

sage  from  its  fugitive  glory  fell  into  the  ravine.     There 
night  had  already  encamped. 

The  dominant  sentiment  of  the  scene  was  a  deep  and 
all-pervading  sense  of  desolation,  and  even  of  abandon- 
ment. It  penetrated  to  the  bones  and  begot  a  shudder. 
This  feeling  was  heightened  by  the  silence,  for  the  utter 
absence  of  all  sound  was  a  thing  to  marvel  at.  The  very 
wind,  that  breathed  so  freely  in  the  open,  seemed  here  to 
be  holding  its  breath  as  though  fearful  of  disturbing  the 
unnatural  serenity  that  brooded  over  all. 

Zetitzka's  heart  swelled.  All  around  seemed  darkly 
antagonistic  both  to  her  and  to  her  mission.  The  cliffs, 
raising  themselves  out  of  the  obscurity  as  though  cognisant 
of  her  approach,  appeared  to  be  dreadful  faces  threatening 
her.  They  filled  her  with  a  poignant  sense  of  her  terrible 
and  helpless  isolation.  For  a  moment  the  woman  in  her 
was  oppressed,  shrank,  longed  pathetically  for  support. 
In  desperation,  with  a  heart  well-nigh  bursting,  she  raised 
her  eyes  skywards.  There,  in  the  wan  rift  of  evening,  now 
paling  rapidly  as  day  leaned  towards  night,  a  solitary 
eagle  wheeled  and  soared.  Her  lonely  heart  leapt  towards 
it  with  passionate  envy.  But  the  weakness  passed.  The 
old  fierce  pain  probed  her  anew.  She  was  an  outcast  until 
this  act  of  retribution  could  be  accomplished.  Weakness 
and  vacillation  were  not  for  her.  She  had  discarded  her 
sex  with  her  woman's  clothes.  She  must  seek  a  man's 
sterner  nature  in  her  breast.  Was  she  not  an  Arnaut? 
The  fearlessness  of  her  race  reasserted  itself.  The  mute, 
undying  rancour  that  had  accumulated  day  by  day,  and 
week  by  week,  surged  up  in  her  afresh.  With  a  courage 
worthy  of  her  ancestors  she  matched  the  blackness  in  her 
heart  with  the  blackness  of  this  sinister  gorge,  and  saw 
herself  the  stronger.  Let  it  threaten — let  it  try  to  bar  her 
way — she  would  go  on,  on  to  the  bitter  end ! 

A  sound  beside  her  recalled  the  young  monk.  He  was 
watching  her  with  a  look  of  gratified  pride. 

"  Beautiful,  is  it  not?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  will  come 
to  love  it  when  you  know  it  as  well  as  I.  Look!  "  He 
pointed  tpwards^the  heights  that  barred  the  grey  distance. 

There  is  Hagios  Triada — a  small  monastery,  and  insig- 
nificant compared  with  ours — you  can  see  some  of  the 
others  from  Kalabaka,  but  not  so  well  as  from  here. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  41 

Hagios  Stephanos  lies  farther  off — I  have  a  friend  there 
whom  I  go  to  see  sometimes.  Hagios  Meteoron  is  in  that 
direction.  That  one  there  is  deserted  and  in  ruins  now— 
there  are  many  like  that.  And  Hagios  Barlaam  " — his 
voice  rang  with  conscious  pride — "  is  up  there.  Ah!  you 
may  well  stare,  my  brother,  'tis  the  most  important,  ay, 
and  the  most  beautiful.  To  my  mind,  it,  of  all  the  monas- 
teries, earns  best  the  name  of  Meteora — *  in  mid-air,'  or, 
as  one  should  say,  '  above  the  world. '  ' 

Her  eyes  followed  his  finger  in  amazement. 

Before  them,  where  the  path  lost  itself  in  blue  glooms, 
rose  an  immense  wall  of  cliff.  The  lad  was  pointing  to 
its  summit.  Zetitzka  strained  her  eyes.  Far  overhead, 
faintly  illuminated  by  the  dying  sunlight,  she  made  out 
what  seemed  to  be  grey  buildings,  so  one  with  the  living 
rock,  both  in  colour  and  formation,  that  it  was  little  wonder 
she  had.  judged  them  at  first  to  be  but  a  continuation  of 
it.  Irregular  in  construction,  crumbling  and  weather-worn, 
not  only  were  they  balanced  on  the  sheer  verge,  but  in  some 
places  even  projected  over  the  abyss. 

"  Holy  Jesus!  "  she  murmured. 

Astonishing  as  was  its  site,  it  was  its  deep  personal 
significance,  rather  than  its  position,  that  forced  the  sacred 
name  from  her  lips.  For  weeks  it  had  never  been  absent 
from  her  mind.  She  had  pictured  it  fearfully  in  wakeful 
hours — recognised  it  with  a  start  of  horror  in  vivid  dreams 
— in  fact,  ever  since  Nik  Leka  had  brought  her  word  that 
Stephanos  had  taken  refuge  within  its  walls.  "Within  its 
precincts  she  had  enacted  again  and  again  in  morbid  imag- 
ination the  tragedy  in  which  fate  had  decreed  that  she 
should  play  a  part.  And  here  it  was!  Like  all  places 
pictured  beforehand,  she  found  the  reality  trenchantly  at 
variance  with  her  expectations — more  gloomy,  more  strange 
— if  possible,  more  sinister.  The  boy  at  her  side  laughed 
merrily. 

"  But,  yes."  He  nodded  his  head  relishingly.  "  No 
wonder  you  admire  it.  All  the  world  marvels — everyone 
— even  rich  noblemen  from  distant  lands  oversea,  whom 
Dimitri  brings  sometimes  on  his  mules.  And  its  fine  posi- 
tion is  the  least  part.  Oh,  the  least  part!  I  assure  you, 
little  brother,  it  is  holy,  but  so  holy !  There  is  not  another 
monastery  like  it  in  the  whole  world.  Do  you  know  what 


42  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

it  is  called — for  it  likewise  has  two  names?  It  is  called— 
1  The  Paradise  of  the  Mother  of  God.'  ' 

His  voice  sank,  hushed  and  solemn.  That  he  counted 
upon  her  being  deeply  impressed  was  obvious.  Zetitzka, 
engrossed  with  her  own  anxieties,  merely  nodded. 

"  You  doubtless  marvel  why?  "  he  continued.  Then 
with  simple  and  devout  earnestness,  "  I  will  tell  you — I 
know  all  about  it.  It  is  so  called  because  the  Holy  Mother 
has  appeared  to  blessed  monks  in  Barlaam  no  less  than  five 
times.  Not  lately,  alas,  but  before  I  came  here.  She  is 
the  only  woman  who  ever  visits  the  monastery — and  ours  is 
the  only  monastery  she  ever  visits.  Poly  cola!  '' 

Zetitzka  kept  silent.  An  alien  feeling  crept  over  her. 
This  youth  belonged  to  a  different  world.  She  was  in  no 
frame  of  mind  to  take  interest  in  miraculous  manifesta- 
tions. To  her  the  monastery  was  only  the  abode  of 
Stephanos — the  scene  of  a  gruesome  and  imminent  tragedy. 
All  at  once,  as  she  stumbled  onwards,  her  ears  were  assailed 
by  a  harsh  metallic  noise.  It  seemed  to  fall  from  the 
heights,  mysteriously  alarming  in  the  dusk,  awakening  in- 
numerable echoes.  Fearfully  Zetitzka  gazed  into  her  com- 
panion's face.  His  smile  reassured  her. 

1 '  That  is  Brother  Elias  beating  the  semantron.  'Tis  the 
hour  for  supper,  praise  be  to  the  Saints!  My  stomach  is 
like  a  pilgrim's  wallet — it  begs  even  for  broken  meats. 
Ah,  there  goes  Hagios  Triada,  and  hearken,  Meteoron  like- 
wise !  ' ' 

From  distant  summits  other  semantra  were  calling. 
Monastery  after  monastery  was  lifting  up  its  voice,  send- 
ing forth  its  summons  across  the  benighted  gorges,  relapsing 
again  into  silence.  The  effect  of  these  wild  voices  crying 
to  each  other  in  the  dusk  was  ghostly  beyond  expression. 

Her  young  companion  leading  the  way  with  precaution, 
for  in  the  dusk  the  boulders  and  deeps  ruts  were  all  but 
invisible,  they  reached  the  base  of  the  cliff. 

Guided  by  his  gesture,  Zetitzka  made  out  a  series  of 
rude  ladders,  absolutely  perpendicular,  the  top  of  the  one 
being  lashed  to  the  bottom  of  the  other,  the  whole  forming 
a  staircase  frail  and  perilous  in  the  extreme.  Raising  her 
eyes  she  tried  to  follow  them  in  their  ascent,  but  they 
dwindled  and  blurred  far  overhead  against  the  immense 
face  of  the  cliff. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  43 

' '  Is  there  no  other  way  ?  ' '  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  There  is  the  rope  and  net  which  we  let  down  from 
the  tower  of  the  windlass,  but  no  one  will  be  there  at  this 
time  of  night.  Why — "  he  peered  closely  at  her — "  you 
are  as  white  as  a  missal !  By  the  bones  of  Saint  Peter,  I 
am  an  infidel  beast !  May  I  do  penance  if  I  did  not  forget 
that  you  had  never  been  up  before!  Come,  my  brother, 
courage !  See,  I  go  first.  Follow  me  close,  and,  above  all, 
do  not  look  down.  'Tis  not  so  difficult  as  it  looks. 
Come!  " 

But  Zetitzka  did  not  immediately  respond.  Albeit  a 
hill-woman  and  accustomed  from  her  childhood  to  clamber 
among  rocks,  this  perpendicular  ascent  to  dangers  unknown 
presented  a  peril  that  could  not  be  exaggerated. 

Encouraging  her  by  voice  and  gesture,  the  young  monk 
led  the  way. 

They  began  the  ascent — two  tiny  figures,  one  above  the 
other,  mere  specks  on  the  great  blackness  of  the  rock.  The 
only  sound  to  be  heard  was  the  creaking  of  the  ladders, 
as  the  clumsy  lengths  oscillated  to  their  movements.  Far 
overhead  Barlaam,  hooded  in  night,  seemed  to  watch  them 
in  a  silence  that  was  sinister. 

All  at  once  the  boy  spoke  again : — 

"  Beware  of  this  rung,"  he  said  warningly,  "  'tis 
rotten. ' ' 

They  continued  to  ascend. 

At  the  top  of  the  third  length  her  guide  paused. 

"  Sit  here,  and  rest,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  indicating 
a  ledge  barely  two  feet  in  width.  With  a  sickening  sense 
of  fear  which  she  fought  hard  to  overcome,  Zetitzka  obeyed. 
Her  back  was  now  against  the  cliff,  but  her  feet  dangled  in 
space.  Her  companion,  standing  unconcernedly  on  the 
sheer  brink,  continued  to  speak : — 

"  We  have  almost  arrived.  Take  heart.  Only  one  more 
ladder." 

"  Where?  "  she  questioned  in  an  unsteady  voice.  As 
she  spoke  she  strained  her  eyes  into  the  gloom.  No  other 
ladder,  however,  was  visible.  The  ledge  seemed  to  melt 
into  space. 

"  Quite  near.  I  will  show  you.  It  hangs  from  the  top 
and  separate  from  the  others.  You  see,  that  is  because 
we  draw  it  up  to  the  monastery  every  night.  'Tis  sup- 


44  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

posed  to  be  a  precaution — useful  perhaps,  long  ago.  Now, 
take  heed;  we  have  to  creep  along  this  ledge  till  we  reach 
the  ladder.  Are  you  ready?  " 

"Go  on !  "  she  cried  testily.  Her  voice  betrayed  ex- 
treme nervous  tension.  She  heard  his  sandals  shuffle  in 
the  dusk — then  silence.  Suddenly  realising  the  terrible 
precariousness  of  her  position,  she  felt  physically  incapable 
of  following.  Again  she  looked  around.  Neither  parapet 
nor  railing  protected  the  ledge.  Above  her,  the  cliff  tow- 
ered ;  below,  it  fell  sheer.  In  front  yawned  a  void,  a  vast, 
mysterious  profundity  full  of  night  and  terror,  from  which 
came  puffs  of  cold  air.  A  moment  of  dizziness,  a  single 
careless  movement,  and  she  would  be  precipitated  into  it. 
And  as  if  to  add  to  her  alarm,  a  sudden  rush  of  air  swept 
upwards  out  of  the  darkness.  With  a  stifled  cry  she  saw 
a  huge  bird — its  size  exaggerated  by  the  gloom — perch  itself 
within  a  yard  of  where  she  sat.  Panic  seized  her.  ' '  Holy 
Mary !  ' '  she  gasped.  Then,  as  the  monstrous  shadow  edged 
nearer: — "  Petros!  "  she  screamed.  "  Petros!  " 

In  less  than  a  minute  he  was  again  by  her  side.  Seat- 
ing himself  on  the  ledge  he  put  his  arm  about  her.  He 
felt  so  strong,  such  a  present  help  in  danger  that  he  com- 
forted her  inexpressibly. 

"  Gently!  "  he  soothed,  patting  her  the  while.  "  Gently, 
my  brother.  Look  you,  this  will  never  do.  And  you, 
who  have  climbed  so  famously !  Why,  it  was  in  my  mind 
to  tell  the  brethren  how  brave  you  were.  'Twas  our  eagle 
that  frightened  you,  I  suppose ;  the  good-for-nothing !  We 
feed  him  in  the  monastery — at  least  I  do — and  he  grows 
presumptuous  when  he  sees  me.  You  feel  better,  yes? 
Shall  we  try  again?  " 

Comforted  and  encouraged,  more  by  his  presence  than  his 
words,  she  followed  him.  Mounting  the  last  rungs,  they 
neared  a  tiny  platform  projecting  from  the  cliff  and  sus- 
tained by  rude  beams  driven  into  the  face  of  the  rock. 
A  trap-door  set  in  the  flooring  opened  immediately  above 
their  heads.  To  gain  access  to  the  monastery  they  were 
obliged  to  creep  through  this,  a  feat  rendered  difficult  owing 
to  the  continual  oscillation  of  the  ladder.  With  the  aid 
of  her  companion,  however,  Zetitzka  overcame  this  last 
obstacle,  and  stood  at  length  on  the  dark  threshold  of  Bar- 
laam,  the  gloomy  heights  of  which  had  never  before  been 
trodden  by  foot  of  woman. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  night.  Seated  upon  a  low  divan  within  his  tiny 
living-room  the  Abbot  was  engaged  with  his  supper. 

The  cell  of  Sofronos  Constantinon,  Hegoumenos  of  Bar- 
laam,  differed  in  no  respect  from  those  of  his  subordinates. 
Small,  bare,  cheerless,  its  furniture  consisted  solely  of  the 
divan — by  day  a  couch,  by  night  a  bed — and  a  diminu- 
tive Oriental  table.  No  wash-stand,  looking-glass,  or  other 
evidence  of  modern  comfort,  was  to  be  seen.  An  old 
cupboard,  dark  with  age  and  built  into  the  wall,  sufficed  for 
the  concealment  of  his  spare  clothing  and  for  the  few  per- 
sonal articles  which  he  possessed.  The  window,  resembling 
in  size  the  port-hole  of  a  ship,  and  in  barred  security  that 
of  a  prison,  pierced  the  wall  at  a  considerable  distance 
above  the  top  of  the  cupboard.  It  was,  therefore,  im- 
possible for  the  occupant  to  view  the  outer  world  without 
standing  either  upon  the  divan  or  the  table.  As  the 
dormitory  looked  towards  the  north,  no  sunshine  found  its 
way  through  this  narrow  aperture.  Its  panes  of  inferior 
glass  spoke  of  the  dust  and  raindrops  of  centuries;  the 
niggard  light,  struggling  inwards,  falsified  the  brightness 
of  morning,  the  glory  of  evening,  turning  existence  into  a 
neutral-tinted  monotony,  colourless  as  the  life  of  the  occu- 
pant. 

One  touch  of  unexpected  brightness  alone  arrested  the 
attention — a  handful  of  poppies  arranged  in  a  glass  upon 
the  table.  Their  warm  tones  leaped  to  the  eyes.  There 
was  something  strangely  out  of  place,  almost  sensuous,  in 
this  blaze  of  unusual  colour.  It  was  as  if  forbidden  dreams 
had  blossomed  suddenly  into  scarlet  flowers. 

The  worn  face  of  the  Hegoumenos  had  an  air  of  distinc- 
tion, for,  unlike  the  majority  of  those  over  whom  he  had 
been  elected  to  rule,  Sofronos  Constantinon  came  of  gentle 
forbears.  There  was  that  too  in  his  appearance  that  ac- 
counted for  the  respectful,  almost  solicitous,  affection  that 
all  within  the  monastery  bore  him.  His  countenance  was 

45 


46  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

indicative  of  his  mind ;  in  it  one  read  of  a  sincere  and  up- 
right nature,  narrow,  perhaps,  as  was  but  natural  when 
one  considered  the  monastic  groove  in  which  his  life  had 
passed,  but  beautiful  in  its  simplicity,  unspoiled  by  con- 
tact with  the  world.  Goodness  beamed  from  his  eyes,  self- 
restraint  showed  visible  in  the  lines  of  his  mouth.  His  long 
white  beard,  descending  to  his  chest,  gave  him  a  venerable, 
indeed  a  patriarchal  air  that  accorded  well  with  the  flow- 
ing lines  of  his  fur-trimmed  robe. 

This  old  man  belonged  to  a  world  that  is  past,  a  world 
that  gave  birth  to  hermits,  and  saints,  and  ascetics. 
Seventy-three  years  of  age,  he  had  lived  a  life  of  re- 
nunciation. He  alone  among  the  abbots  of  Meteora  had 
attained  the  distinction  of  "  The  Great  Habit,"  the  high- 
est monastic  grade,  entailing  almost  complete  withdrawal 
from  things  earthly,  and  a  life  entirely  devoted  to  religious 
exercises.  His  black  scapula,  however — in  shape  not  un- 
like the  epitrachelion,  or  Eastern  priest's  stole,  worked 
with  cross,  lance,  skull  and  crossbones,  the  only  outward 
and  visible  sign  of  his  ecclesiastical  rank — was  donned  but 
rarely,  being  reserved  for  the  celebration  of  the  Holy  Com- 
munion and  festivals  of  great  religious  importance. 

A  tallow  candle,  placed  in  a  brass  candlestick,  stood 
upon  a  bracket  fastened  to  the  opposite  wall.  The  shadow 
of  Hegoumenos  loomed  huge  and  distorted  behind  him  upon 
the  whitewashed  space  between  the  cupboard  and  the  win- 
dow. It  appeared  to  threaten  with  vague  and  ominous 
gestures.  Other  shadows  lurked  in  the  corners.  Seen  in 
the  flickering  light,  the  austere  little  room  seemed  a  fitting 
environment  to  the  aged  priest. 

Upon  the  table  stood  a  tray  with  the  remains  of  supper 
— not  the  savoury  diet  of  vegetables  served  in  the  refec- 
tory, but  Eucharistic  cakes — of  fine  flour  and  stamped  with 
the  words  in  Greek,  "  Jesus  Christ  conquers,"  a  delicacy 
reserved  for  his  especial  use.  The  wine  also  differed  from 
that  supplied  to  the  monks,  being  of  superior  quality. 

The  Hegoumenos  of  Barlaam  invariably  partook  of  his 
meals  alone.  They  were  brought  to  his  cell  by  a  lay- 
brother.  His  day  and  night  were  as  rigidly  mapped  out 
as  were  those  of  his  subordinates,  but,  unlike  them,  he 
was  condemned  by  his  rank  to  pass  his  leisure  hours  in 
solitude.  He  could  indeed  visit  the  brethren  where  and 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  47 

when  he  pleased — having  access  to  their  cells  as  one 
privileged  to  intrude  upon  retirement — he  could  pause  in 
his  solitary  wanderings  about  the  monastic  precincts  to 
address  a  remark  or  even  crack  a  time-honoured  jest,  but 
for  all  that  he  was  a  being  apart,  and  all  recognised  that, 
although  with  them,  he  was  not  of  them.  This  enforced 
loneliness  imparted  a  touch  of  pathos.  It  became  visible 
at  times  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes;  a  look  as  if  he  had 
missed  something,  as  if,  in  the  rarefied  atmosphere  of  his 
spiritual  life,  he  were  dimly  conscious  of  a  want  that 
haunted  him  with  vague  yearnings,  vague  regrets. 

From  time  to  time  the  old  priest  broke  the  cakes  with 
listless  fingers,  and,  raising  the  cup,  touched  the  contents 
with  abstemious  lips.  His  supper  finished,  he  pushed  the 
table  from  him  and  rose  to  his  feet.  Fumbling  in  the 
pocket  of  his  cloak  he  produced  a  horn  snuff-box,  from 
which  he  helped  himself  to  a  generous  pinch.  As  he  did 
so,  his  eyes  glistened.  It  was  his  one  vice,  and  he.  pan- 
dered to  it  with  the  utmost  self-complacency.  Brushing 
the  dust  from  his  white  beard  and  moving  softly,  he  went 
out  into  the  corridor.  The  barn-like  gallery  was  plunged 
in  obscurity.  The  faint  light  from  behind  him  fell  upon 
a  bundle  of  sheepskins  suspended  from  a  nail,  and  on  the 
open,  windowless  space  that,  looking  upon  the  courtyard, 
gave  light  in  the  daytime  to  the  corridor.  Framed  by 
the  latter,  the  leaves  of  a  fig-tree  could  dimly  be  distin- 
guished forming  mysterious  arabesques  against  the  black- 
ness beyond.  The  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  subdued 
sound  of  snores  proceeding  from  the  adjacent  cells.  It 
being  ten  o'clock,  the  majority  of  the  brethren  had  retired 
to  snatch  a  little  sleep  before  the  semantron  summoned 
them  to  private  meditations  at  half-past  eleven. 

The  old  man  inhaled  the  night  air.     Its  purity  refreshed 
him  after  the  vitiated  atmosphere  of  his  cell.     He  was 
about  to  re-enter  his  little  room  when  footsteps  in  the 
courtyard  attracted  his  attention. 
'  Who  is  there?  "  he  called. 

"It  is  I,  venerable  father,"  came  the  voice  of  Petros. 
"  Have  I  permission  to  speak?  " 

"  Assuredly,  my  son." 

The  boy  stood  below  in  the  blackness  of  the  court,  the 
Abbot  above  him  in  the  gallery. 


48  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  I  would  have  come  to  you  before,"  continued  Petros, 
"  but  I  feared  to  disturb  you.  I  have  to  confess  that  I 
overstayed  my  time  to-night." 

"  Then  you  have  lost  your  supper?  " 

Under  cover  of  the  darkness  Petros  beamed. 

"  Nay,  venerable  father;  Sotiri  kept  back  a  platter  for 
me." 

"  That  is  well;  but,  my  son,  rules  are  for  our  guidance. 
Try  not  to  transgress  again." 

"  That  will  I — but  there  was  a  reason " 

He  related  his  meeting  with  Zetitzka.  The  old  man, 
bending  over  the  rail,  listened  eagerly. 

"  He  is  then  here?  "  The  Abbot  broke  in  upon  the 
narration. 

"  Yes,  he  waiteth  to  have  speech  of  you.  I  left  him 
but  now,  in  the  outer  court." 

"  Bring  him  to  me  at  once." 

Petros  lingered. 

"  My  father " 

"  Speak." 

"  He  is  a  likely  enough  lad,  and  he  has  known  sorrow. 
I  found  that  out,  I  alone !  It  would  be  gladsome  to  have 
him  here  always.  Now,  if  so  be  that  you  keep  him,  I 
fear  that  the  work  may  be  too  hard — he  puzzles  me  some- 
what— silent  and  fearless,  but  sad,  and  assuredly  no  head 
for  precipices.  But  I — you  know  me ! — now  if  in  your 
goodness  you  could  devise  somewhat,  right  joyfully  would 
I " 

There  came  a  soft  chuckle  from  the  gallery. 

"  And  so  you  fear  that  I  may  prove  a  hard  taskmas- 
ter? " 

"Nay,  venerable  father!     I  meant  not  that;  I  would 

have  said " 

'  There,  my  son,  no  need  to  speak.  I  know.  Now, 
go  and  sleep — even  Samson  slept  on  occasions,  I  believe." 
He  chuckled  again.  "  But  first  conduct  the  youth  here, 
for  it  is  dark  to-night." 

'  You  asked  to  see  me?  "  said  the  Abbot  kindly,  when 
Zetitzka,  guided  by  Petros,  stood  before  him.  As  he  spoke, 
he  peered  downward  from  the  gallery  at  the  figure  clad  in 
white  that  looked  so  remarkable  in  the  dusk  of  the  court. 

"  Yes." 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  49 

"  Say  '  venerable  father,'  "  prompted  the  youthful  voice 
at  her  elbow. 

The  aged  priest  caught  the  whisper  and  smiled.  "  Come 
with  me,"  said  he,  addressing  Zetitzka.  "  We  can  talk 
better  in  my  cell.  Over  the  bridge,  there,  on  your  left. 
Come." 

She  joined  him  in  silence,  with  a  beating  heart.  Once 
within  the  little  room,  the  Abbot  adjusted  his  spectacles 
and  turned  with  unaffected  interest  to  scrutinise  the 
stranger.  His  eyes  fell  upon  the  picturesque  costume, 
strangely  barbaric  in  the  wavering  candle-light — the  oval 
face,  unaccountably  pale — the  mouth,  with  its  lips  set 
firm  in  a  line  of  determination — and,  finally,  upon  the 
eyes,  large,  black,  and  unnaturally  bright.  The  latter 
struck  and  held  his  gaze.  Their  hard  and  feverish  glitter 
spoke  of  a  soul  troubled  to  its  depths,  and  conveyed,  more- 
over, the  impression  of  a  wild  animal  confronted  with 
danger. 

The  Abbot  cleared  his  throat,  and  took  an  immense 
pinch  of  snuff. 

"  Now,  my  son,"  said  he,  combing  his  long  white  beard 
with  his  fingers,  "  what  have  you  to  say  to  me?  " 

Zetitzka  remained  silent.  Her  fingers  underneath  her 
jacket  clasped  and  unclasped  the  silver  handle  of  her 
yataghan  with  a  nervous  contraction  of  the  muscles.  Her 
eyes  strayed  restlessly  from  the  divan  to  the  door,  and 
from  the  door  to  the  black  cupboard  on  the  wall. 

"  "Well?  "  said  the  Abbot,  after  a  long  pause. 

Zetitzka  gnawed  at  her  under  lip. 

Faintly  across  the  benighted  court  stole  the  sound  of 
singing.  It  came  from  the  refectory.  It  seemed  to 
Zetitzka  as  if  the  quavering  notes  were  depriving  her  of 
all  power  of  thought. 

' '  Far  be  it  from  me  to  force  you  to  speak, ' '  went  on  the 
mild  voice.  He  paused  a  moment,  then  continued: — "  I 
see  your  heart  is  troubled.  It  has  for  long  been  my  great 
privilege,  with  the  good  God's  assistance — "  he  crossed 
himself  reverently — "  to  comfort  them  that  mourn.  All 
in  distress  have  a  claim  on  me.  All  here  are  my  dear 
children.  Now  you,  my  son,  are  young — a  boy!  Look 
on  me  as  an  earthly  father.  Try  to  tell  me  what  troubles 
you." 
4 


50  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

He  spoke  in  so  kind  a  manner,  putting  the  question 
with  the  diffidence  of  one  who  fears  to  intrude  upon  the 
sorrows  of  another,  that  Zetitzka  was  moved  in  spite  of 
the  blackness  that  weighed  her  down.  Her  reception  was 
proving  far  different  from  that  which  she  had  anticipated. 
It  was  as  if  a  helping  hand  were  outstretched  to  her  in 
the  groping  blackness  of  her  night.  For  the  first  time 
since  she  had  parted  from  her  child,  a  wavering  softness 
came  into  her  eyes.  It  was  gone,  however,  on  the  in- 
stant. At  the  memory  of  the  man  who  had  betrayed  her 
— at  the  certainty  that  he  was  there,  within  fifty  yards, 
living  in  an  odour  of  sanctity,  every  gentle  thought  fled 
precipitately,  and  again  her  hand  closed  tight  upon  her 
yataghan. 

Looking  straight  at  her  would-be  confessor  in  defensive 
though  mute  defiance,  she  shook  her  head. 

To  her  surprise  a  twinkle  came  into  the  old  man's  eyes. 

11  Well,"  said  he,  "  as  you  cannot  tell  me,  needs  must  I 
guess. ' ' 

She  waited,  breathless. 

"  You  have  come  across  the  frontier?  " 

"  Y— es." 

"Albanian?  " 

Again  a  muttered  affirmative.  The  Abbot  rubbed  his 
hands. 

"  I  knew  it.  Behold,  none  can  wittingly  deceive  me! 
Now,"  a  complacent  smile  lighted  his  face,  "  how  think 
you  I  guessed  that?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  From  your  raiment.  Yea,  verily.  Sooth  it  is  that  I 
have  seen  clothes  like  these  before,  though  not  so  fine." 
He  touched  the  fringe  of  her  scarlet  sash  with  naive 
admiration,  unconscious  of  her  sudden  shrinking.  "  We 
have  a  dear  brother  who  came  to  us  from  Albania,  per- 
chance a  year  agone.  I  mind  me  of  the  date,  for  it  befell 
during  the  fast  of  the  Holy  Mother  of  God.  He  like- 
wise— '  the  Abbot  checked  himself,  then  inquired  with 
grave  interest—  '  Is  he  known  unto  you?  " 

An  indescribable  alertness  had  come  into  her  face. 

I  think — I  mean —     "  she  stammered  in  confusion. 
'Maybe   not— maybe   not,"   commented   the   old   man, 
visibly  disappointed.     "  Albania  is  doubtless  a  big  place, 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  51 

for  all  it  looks  so  small  on  the  map.  One  cannot  be 
expected  to  know  everyone.  But,  as  I  was  minded  to 
say,  he  likewise  came  to  me  in  sore  need  of  consolation; 
and,  being  young — but  not  so  young  as  you,  he — but  you 
will  see  for  yourself,  for  the  most  part  we  are  all  grey- 
beards here.  Now,"  he  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  "  I 
must  not  forget  divers  but  necessary  questions.  Nay, 
fear  not,  these  you  can  answer  in  a  little  moment.  Tell 
me,  do  you  belong  to  the  true  Church  ?  ' ' 

She  looked  at  him. 

"  The  Orthodox  Greek  Church,"  he  explained. 

"  I  am  a  Christian." 

' '  Polycala,  praise  be  to  God !  There  are  many  Mahom- 
medans  in  your  country.  But,  of  course,  you  would  not 
have  come  here  if  you  had  not  been  of  the  true  faith. 
You  are  very  young — I  marvel  much " 

He  broke  off,  for  he  saw  that  she  was  not  listening  to 
him,  but  to  the  distant  singing. 

So  accustomed  was  the  Abbot  to  deference,  that  this 
young  stranger's  frank  inattention  at  first  surprised,  then 
awoke  in  him  a  faint  sense  of  humour.  He  watched  her 
in  silence,  puzzled,  yet  attracted.  She  stirred  some  deep 
but  undeveloped  instinct  within  him,  something  protective 
and  paternal.  The  white  costume,  the  scarlet  sash,  the 
embroideries,  all  looked  out  of  place  in  this  grey  cell.  The 
young  face  too,  proud  and  strikingly  handsome,  yet 
brooding  and  ill  at  ease,  was  as  alien  to  the  monastery 
as  the  costume.  Never  before  had  the  Abbot's  curiosity 
been  so  excited.  The  flickering  candle-light,  that  touched 
this  unexpected  visitor  here  and  there  with  wavering  gold, 
lent  an  air  of  unreality.  For  very  little,  the  aged  priest 
would  have  believed  this  to  be  an  apparition.  But,  as  he 
looked  wonderingly  at  her,  a  something  pathetically 
human,  pathetically  appealing  to  sympathy  in  her  fixed 
and  strained  expression,  put  all  superstitious  fears  to 
flight. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  he  asked  kindly. 

A  swift  look  of  distress  clouded  her  face. 

"  Nay,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  be  comforted.  It  mat- 
ters not.  I  see  well  that  I  must  first  gain  your  confi- 
dence. What  is  that  you  say?  Angelos?  Well,  that  will 
do — 'tis  a  good  name,  of  lucky  omen,  for  verily  you  have 


52  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

come  amongst  us  as  'twere  an  angel,  unawares."  He 
smiled  upon  her,  pleased  with  the  allusion ;  then  with  a 
suppressed  eagerness  in  his  voice: — "  Now,  I  know  not  if 
so  be  that  you  desire  to  enter  the  monastery?  Nay,  you 
are  too  young." 

The  proposition  took  Zetitzka  aback.  She! — a  woman! 
— to  enter  a  monastery?  To  become  a  monk !  Impossible. 
And  yet,  this  old  man  seemed  in  earnest.  She  was  a  boy 
— a  b0y — she  must  remember  that.  And  after  all,  if  she 
appeared  to  consent?  It  would  gain  time.  It  was  only 
for  one  night.  Thank  God  for  that! 

The  Abbot  marked  her  rising  colour.  Leaning  forward 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  his  eyebrows  arched  inter- 
rogatively. 

"  Y — es,"  she  stammered.  "  I — I  think — I  might  wish 
it." 

The  Abbot  ladled  out  snuff  to  conceal  his  gratification. 
A  new  inmate  for  Barlaam  was  as  fresh  blood  to  his 
veins. 

"  Well,  Angelos,"  said  he,  taking  her  reluctant  hand 
and  stroking  it  between  his  wrinkled  palms.  "  Well, 
there  is  time  sufficient  for  that.  Verily  it  is  a  serious 
step,  and  not  to  be  rashly  undertaken.  Seek  advice  in 
prayer,  my  son.  And  do  naught  you  may  repent  of  later ; 
for  sooth  it  is  we  all  magnify  our  little  earthly  troubles. 
Abide  here  for  a  space,  and  see  if  so  be  you  feel  worthy. 
You  will  find  our  life  full  of  blessed  peace.  Yet  needs 
must  you  labour  with  your  hands,  for  you  will  be  a  postu- 
lant or  lay  brother  till  such  time  as  God  sees  fit  to  make 
you  a  monk.  But  all  can  be  seasonably  settled  on  the 
morrow.  Now,  I  can  spare  you  no  more  time — yet, 
hearken."  He  stayed  her  with  a  gesture.  "  I  give  cell 
No.  15  unto  you ;  it  is  nigh  opposite  the  bridge,  and  not  to 
be  mistaken.  I  will  send  you  raiment  suitable  for  a  lay 
brother.  Good-night,  my  son,  and  may  the  Sweet  Saviour 
have  you  in  His  keeping. ' ' 

He  raised  his  thin  hand  in  a  gesture  of  benediction 
and  of  dismissal.  She  waited  a  moment,  half  expecting 
him  to  speak  again,  but  as  he  remained  silent,  she  slipped 
noiselessly  from  the  rooit 


CHAPTER  VII 

CLOSING  the  door  of  her  cell,  Zetitzka  felt  anxiously  for 
a  key  or  bolt,  but  found  neither.  A  faint  light  from  the 
lofty  barred  window  revealed  her  new  abode  as  a  fac- 
simile of  that  of  the  Abbot.  As  she  moved  stealthily 
forward,  a  low  and  monotonous  sound  came  to  her  ears, 
resolving  itself,  as  she  held  her  breath,  into  an  incompre- 
hensible mumbling  proceeding  from  the  adjoining  cell. 
A  heavy  smell  floated  on  the  unventilated  atmosphere, 
mysteriously  suggestive  of  unsavoury  monkish  belongings. 
It  seemed  to  Zetitzka — her  nerves  in  a  state  of  tension — 
as  if  that  stale  and  oppressive  odour  were  a  something 
lurking  there,  some  spirit  of  a  former  occupant,  austere, 
antagonistic,  peculiarly  distinctive  of  Barlaam,  of  the 
monastery  that  had  frowned  down  upon  her  from  the 
heights,  and  now  encircled  her  like  a  trap  with  a  grim  and 
ominous  silence. 

A  fierce  impatience  possessed  her.  To  her  mind,  un- 
naturally excited  under  an  appearance  of  calm,  all  cross- 
examination  was  futile,  a  mere  waste  of  time.  The  neces- 
sity for  disguising  her  feelings  had  taxed  her  self-control 
almost  beyond  its  power  of  endurance.  More  than  once 
she  had  been  on  the  point  of  betraying  herself. 

Now,  in  this  cell,  she  could  breathe  freely,  was  at  liberty 
to  mature  her  plans.  Her  surroundings  made  but  little 
effect  upon  her  save  as  a  dark  and  unfamiliar  background 
to  a  terrible  necessity.  The  latter  stood  out  as  a  fierce 
white  light,  absorbing  her,  claiming  her  every  thought, 
penetrating  to  the  inmost  recesses  of  her  being.  To  find 
Stephanos,  to  kill  him,  and  to  fly ! 

But  her  brain,  numb  with  suffering  and  the  stress  of 
long-continued  emotions  unnaturally  repressed,  was  un- 
able to  respond  at  once  to  this  effort  of  her  will.  As  she 
sat  there  in  the  darkness,  her  head  between  her  hands, 
she  was  distressingly  conscious  of  a  mental  vacuity,  and 
of  a  physical  weakness  that  caused  her  brain  to  burn. 

53 


54  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Yet  no  doubt  of  herself  darkened  her  mind.  She  could 
do  it.  Let  her  but  once  confront  him  and  the  smoulder- 
ing memory  of  her  wrongs  would  flame  high,  would  steel 
her  heart  and  nerve  her  hand.  But  where  was  he?  In 
this  black  and  fearful  abode  of  monks  she  must  seek  him 
now,  at  once! 

Slowly  she  rose  to  her  feet.  As  she  stood  there,  a 
desperate  woman,  wide-eyed,  alert,  the  sound  of  heavy 
footsteps  came  from  the  corridor.  This  noise  breaking 
upon  the  intense  stillness  forced  the  other  monastic  in- 
mates to  her  mind ;  made  her  realise  also,  that  if  she  were 
to  act  at  all,  she  must  act  at  once.  Moving  forward,  she 
opened  the  door  of  her  cell.  Peering  into  the  obscurity 
of  the  passage,  she  wondered  with  a  breathless  and  fixed 
intensity  which  of  these  many  diminutive  rooms  was  that 
occupied  by  the  man  who  had  deserted  her.  Having 
nothing  to  guide  her,  she  moved  forward  aimlessly,  but 
with  anxious  caution.  Under  her  feet  the  old  woodwork 
creaked,  causing  her  more  than  once  to  stand  still  in  sud- 
den apprehension;  but  nothing  seemed  alive  in  this  dead 
and  isolated  world,  nothing  but  the  night  wind  moaning 
sadly  to  itself  among  the  fig  leaves. 

Zetitzka  had  formed  no  conception  of  the  interior  of  a 
monastery.  To  her  anxious  straining  eyes  it  seemed  full 
of  sinister  passages,  of  mysterious  openings,  of  dark  and 
unexpected  flights  of  stairs,  leading  she  knew  not  whither. 
Chill  and  earthy  draughts  breathed  upon  her;  and  from 
overhead,  among  a  night  of  rafters,  came  thin  screeching 
noises  that  caused  her  skin  to  roughen.  Mechanically, 
moving  as  one  impelled  by  a  dream,  she  wandered  on, 
noiseless,  groping  with  arms  outstretched,  looking,  in  her 
white  costume,  by  the  faint  light  that  stole  inwards  from 
the  courtyard,  as  ghostly  as  did  the  monastery  itself. 

Suddenly,  as  she  paused  irresolute,  a  dark  figure  crossed 
the  court,  and  passed  within  a  few  yards  of  where  she 
stood.  Taking  her  courage  in  both  hands,  Zetitzka  called 
to  it.  The  figure  paused,  then  approached  her. 

'  Who  are  you?  "  cried  an  unfamiliar  voice.  Its  Greek 
was  the  Greek  of  the  islands,  but  Zetitzka  understood  with- 
out difficulty. 

Her  explanation  appeared  to  arouse  the  new-comer's  as- 
tonishment, for  he  nttered  an  ejaculation. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  55 

"You  came  to-night!  No  one  told  me.  So,  you  are 
to  be  a  postulant?  Well,  you  will  be  under  me.  I  am 
Sotiri,  the  eldest  of  the  lay  brethren.  You  will  sleep  with 
us.  Come,  I  will  show  you." 

In  a  low  voice  Zetitzka  mentioned  that  the  Abbot  had 
already  apportioned  her  a  cell.  The  information  appar- 
ently roused  his  disapprobation,  for  his  manner  changed 
abruptly. 

"  Why  are  you  wandering  about  here?  "  he  demanded. 

Zetitzka  hesitated.     "  I  was  looking  for — for ' 

"  For  whom?  " 

"  For  one  of  the  monks.  He  is  called — or  used  to  be 
called — Stephanos. ' ' 

"  Brother  Stephanos?  Do  you  know  him?  "  His  voice 
betrayed  unexpected  interest. 

"  I  used  to  know  him." 

"  So  you  are  a  friend  of  his?  That  makes  a  difference. 
He  is  a  saint." 

Zetitzka  choked  back  a  cry  of  amazement.  The  wind 
wandered  in  from  the  night,  and  moaned  faintly  along  the 
deserted  passages.  The  sound  was  one  of  desolation  and 
infinite  melancholy. 

"  Which  is  his  cell?  "  Her  whisper  barely  stirred  the 
silence. 

"His  ceU?    No.  18.    But  you  cannot  go  there.     'Tis 
forbidden.     Besides,  he  is  not  there  now." 
'  Not  there?  " 

"No.  He  prays  in  the  Catholicon.  There!"  He 
pointed  towards  a  shadowy  building  that,  detaching  itself 
from  its  neighbours,  upreared  its  dome  into  the  night. 

Zetitzka  caught  her  breath.  To  know  Stephanos  so  close 
filled  her  with  unexpected  and  overpowering  emotions. 
Pressing  her  hands  to  her  bosom  under  cover  of  the 
darkness,  she  stood  speechless.  Her  companion  yawned 
loudly. 

"  Well,  I  cannot  stand  here  wasting  time.  I  must  get 
my  charcoal.  The  semantron  will  sound  soon — and  I  who 
could  sleep  for  a  week!  You  will  find  him  there;  but  it 
is  not  seemly  to  disturb  him  in  his  devotions.  It  were 
better  you  went  to  bed." 

The  last  words  were  flung  over  his  shoulder  as  he 
receded. 


56  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Zetitzka  entered  the  Catholicon.  She  moved  noiselessly, 
having  left  her  shoes  in  the  porch.  The  peculiar  construc- 
tion of  the  venerable  building,  the  mystic  shadows,  the 
chill  gloom,  barely  dispelled  by  the  flicker  of  a  solitary 
candle  burning  before  an  icon,  the  musty  smell  of  wicks, 
incense,  and  draperies,  affected  her  not  at  all.  Her  every 
thought  concentrated  itself  with  a  breathless  and  wide- 
eyed  intensity  upon  a  man  kneeling  before  the  lighted 
picture.  His  back  was  turned  towards  her,  his  head  bent, 
the  tonsure  in  the  form  of  a  cross  being  faintly  visible. 

It  was  he — Stephanos!  Zetitzka  came  to  an  abrupt 
standstill.  Something  leapt  to  her  throat,  but  the  im- 
perative and  terrible  resolution  that  swayed  her  sternly 
demanded  self-control.  Thus  far  everything  had  conspired 
to  assist  her.  The  monks  were  asleep,  the  courtyard  and 
passages  deserted.  The  man  she  sought  was  here,  alone, 
given  over  to  her  vengeance.  She  had  only  to  steal  upon 
him,  strike  one  blow,  then  fly.  Before  the  deed  could 
be  discovered  she  would  be  far  away,  safe  from  pursuit. 
She  tried  to  realise  all  that  this  would  mean — the  black- 
ness of  dishonour  lifted  from  her  life,  the  undying  anguish 
of  self-reproach  alleviated,  her  child  no  longer  branded 
with  shame,  but  the  son  of  a  worthy  mother,  of  one  who, 
though  weak,  had  found  strength  in  suffering  to  avenge 
her  wrongs.  As  these  dawned  upon  her,  a  wave  of  emo- 
tion flooded  her  entire  body,  tingled  through  every  nerve, 
and  filled  her  heart  with  courage. 

Fierce  thoughts,  too,  came  to  her  aid,  mingled  with 
shame  and  resentment.  This  was  the  man  who  had 
wrecked  her  life,  who  had  abandoned  her!  Through  her 
distracted  brain  passed  memories — his  words,  his  kisses, 
his  physical  being  searing  itself  again  upon  hers  in  an 
intense  and  shuddering  agony  of  recollection.  They  passed 
like  bloody  phantoms  through  the  echoing  halls  of  memory, 
crying  to  her,  inflaming  her  to  revenge.  As  she  stood 
motionless,  she  listened  to  these  inaudible  voices  till  her 
breath  came  short  and  her  eyes  darted  flame. 

All  was  still.  The  only  sound  was  the  gnawing  of  mice 
behind  the  ancient  woodwork.  From  time  to  time 
Stephanos  bent  his  body,  pressed  his  forehead  against  the 
marble  pavement;  then,  recovering  his  former  position, 
crossed  himself  devoutly. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  57 

Slowly  Zetitzka's  hand  stole  to  the  hilt  of  her  yataghan. 
Across  her  face  passed  horror,  fascination,  repulsion. 
Into  her  woman's  body  the  soul  of  her  race  rushed — a 
torrent  of  hot  blood.  She  was  conscious  of  it  boiling  around 
her  heart,  seething  through  every  swollen  artery  and  vein, 
impelling  her  to  immediate  action. 

Swiftly  she  glided  forward  on  silent,  naked  feet,  a  dim 
and  avenging  whiteness  amid  the  shadows.  Behind  the 
kneeling  figure  she  paused,  drew  a  deep  shuddering  breath, 
and  jerked  her  hand  on  high.  But  ere  the  blade  could 
strike,  her  eyes  encountered  the  face  of  the  Virgin  con- 
fronting her  immediately  above  the  monk's  head.  The 
trembling  flame,  fanned  by  chill  draughts,  not  only 
caused  it  to  shine  pre-eminently  forth,  but  imparted  to  it 
a  mysterious  animation. 

Within  the  eyes  that  held  hers  with  a  strange  and 
awful  fixity  Zetitzka's  superstitious  brain  read  warning 
and  condemnation.  Petros  had  spoken  of  a  miraculous  icon 
— Our  Lady  of  Pity — potent  to  save  those  who  trusted  in 
her.  Suddenly  it  flashed  into  the  girl's  mind  that  she  was 
protecting  her  worshipper  now. 

Awe  swept  down  upon  her.  Her  hand  fell  to  her  side, 
nerveless.  A  look  of  consternation  came  into  her  face — • 
the  look  of  one  who  recognises  and  recoils  from  a  terrible 
danger. 

All  at  once  the  sancitity  of  the  spot  spoke  to  her.  It 
resembled  the  voice  of  God  raised  suddenly,  unexpectedly 
in  the  silence.  She  shrank  back  appalled. 

The  mental  shock  that  arrested  action  left  every  limb 
paralysed.  For  a  moment  she  stood  as  though  changed  to 
stone,  then,  turning,  fled  swiftly. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  monks  of  Barlaam  drifted  out  of  the  Catholicon. 
The  hands  of  the  cheap  modern  clock  in  the  refectory 
pointed  to  eight. 

Seen  in  the  keen  sunlight  of  the  August  morning,  the 
brethren  were  a  strange  community.  They  were  mediaeval 
men  in  purely  mediaeval  surroundings.  They  not  only  sug- 
gested, but  were,  the  past.  The  world  far  beneath  them 
had  progressed,  but  they  stood  still,  stranded  on  their 
pinnacle  home  as  effectually  as  castaways  on  a  desert  island. 

By  twos  and  threes  they  sauntered  along  the  cloisters, 
their  sombre  habits  and  lonr  grey  beards  according  well 
with  the  old-world  architecture. 

Last  of  all  came  the  Abbot,  walking  alone  in  dignified 
isolation.  The  old  man  appeared  weary  and  as  though  the 
strain  of  the  long  service  had  sapped  his  strength.  Where 
the  cloisters  led  to  the  courtyard  he  paused  to  speak  to 
Petros. 

"  See  Angelos  when  he  wakes,"  he  said,  nodding  his 
tall  hat  in  the  direction  of  the  dormitories.  "  Show  him 
all  things  needful." 

"Yes,  venerable  father." 

"  We  know  naught  of  him,"  mused  the  Abbot — "  his 
folk,  I  mean.  I  hope  he  has  not  come  here  without  their 
consent.  But  vex  him  not  with  questions.  We  will  find 
out  later,  if  God  wills.  Here  all  are  welcome.  I  am  a  sure 
judge  of  character.  He  hath  a  good  face." 

Petros  assented  deferentially,  adding  with  the  freedom 
of  one  privileged  on  account  of  his  youth :  ' '  But, 
venerable  father,  fain  would  I  know  his  history." 

The  old  man  smiled,  then  shook  his  head. 
*  He  comes  from  the  world,  therefore  his  heart  is  full 
of  unrest.  Naught  but  the  life  in  Christ  can  give  peace." 
He  allowed  his  eyes  to  rest  affectionately  upon  the  sunlit 
cloisters,  then  continued:  "  This  youth,  I  see  it  well,  is 
as  one  wounded  in  battle.  Some  foe  hath  smitten  him 

58 


59 

sore.     The  world  is  full  of  such — God  forgive  them!  " 

In  the  boy 's  face  indignation  contended  with  the  restrain- 
ing knowledge  of  his  superior's  presence. 

"  Speak,  my  son." 

"  Would  that  I  could  meet  the  foe  you  speak  of.  By 
the  saints!  "  His  fists  clenched — his  face  glowed.  "  I 
would  do  penance  for  a  month>  ay,  and  gladly,  could  I  but 
smite  him." 

"Gently — gently,  my  son!"  The  Abbot's  voice  was 
grave,  but  the  benevolent  eyes  twinkled.  "  Violence  cor- 
recting violence.  So  is  it  not  laid  down  in  the  Scriptures. 
Now  I  go,  but  see  to  it  that  the  lad  gets  a  good  breakfast. 
Stay!  As  you  and  he  are  comrades,  he  can  eat  with  you 
to-day,  and  to-morrow  I  will  decide  definitely." 

As  the  old  man  spoke,  he  supported  himself,  one  thin 
hand  upon  a  pillar. 

"  You  are  weary,  venerable  father?  "  cried  the  boy  with 
impulsive  sympathy. 

"  Weary?  Nay,  I  am  exceedingly  strong.  It  may  be 
that  the  sun  dazzled  my  eyes — yet  is  my  sight  wondrous. ' ' 

Very  leisurely  he  polished  his  horn-rimmed  spectacles. 
Then,  clasping  his  fur-edged  cassock  around  him,  began 
to  descend  the  steps.  Petros  was  at  once  accosted  by  two 
of  the  brethren.  They  approached  him  with  unusual  haste, 
to  the  swish  of  trailed  sandals. 

"  What  said  the  venerable  father?  "  inquired  Nicodemus. 

"  Yes,  yes;  what  said  he?  "  echoed  Gerasimos. 

Petros  satisfied  their  curiosity. 

"  Ah,"  mumbled  Nicodemus,  biting  long  and  dirty 
nails,  ' '  I  hope  he  will  appear  soon.  What  manner  of  man 
is  he?  What?  Not  yet  twenty?  Blessed  fathers,  Bar- 
laam  is  becoming  a  school !  ' ' 

"  Yet  there  may  be  the  makings  of  a  good  monk  in 
him,"  suggested  Gerasimos  hopefully.  "  And,  brother,  'tis 
from  lads  like  this  that  Barlaam  must  needs  recruit.  Of  a 
surety,  Brother  Petros  and  he  will  be  singing  here  when 
we  are  naught  but — but  a  mouthful  of  worms." 

Nicodemus  spat  hastily. 

"  I  remember  well,"  he  droned  after  a  pause,  coiling  as 
he  spoke  a  wisp  of  his  long  grey  hair  and  poking  it  beneath 
the  rim  of  his  grotesque  hat,  "  I  remember  well  when  I 
joined  the  monastery  all  were  of  proper  age.  One  was 


60  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

ninety-two.    His  name  was — let  me  think — nay,  it  hath 
escaped  me." 

"  He  was  so  old  that  he  died,"  wheezed  Gerasimos 
simply.  "  What  a  blessed  year  was  that — five  funerals!  " 

"  So  he  did — so  he  did.  But — would  I  could  remember 
his  name." 

Gerasimos  yawned  loudly. 

"  There  used  to  be  a  Brother  Josephus,  too,"  continued 
Nicodemus.  "You  remember  him?  At  Hagios  Triada." 

"  He  that  had  a  wart  on  his  nose?  I  remember  him 
well.  He  owed  me  two  pesetas  when  he  died.  Alack,  never 
did  I  recover  them!  " 

The  bleared  eyes  of  Nicodemus  lighted  with  fierce  dis- 
approval. 

"  And  where  is  the  love  of  holy  poverty  that  should  in- 
flame your  sinful  soul,  Brother  Gerasimos  ?  Two  pesetas ! 
Of  such  are  the  kingdom  of  hell.  Two  pesetas !  Get  thee 
behind  me. ' ' 

Gerasimos  crossed  himself  in  visible  anxiety. 

Petros,  seeking  good-naturedly  to  turn  the  conversation 
to  safer  channels,  found  in  the  deceased  Josephus  a  valuable 
ally. 

"  He  had  a  mother,"  snuffled  Nicodemus,  then  chuckled 
in  obvious  reminiscence.  "  Only  think,  brother  " — he  laid 
a  dirty  hand  on  Petros 's  arm — "  she — she  wanted  to  mount 
the  ladders !  But  that  was  long  before  your  time. ' ' 

"  So  she  did,  so  she  did,"  tittered  Gerasimos,  his  eyes 
disappearing  in  wrinkles. 

"  He  was  her  only  son,"  continued  Nicodemus.  "  She 
said  she  could  not  live  without  him.  My  mother  was  more 
reasonable. ' ' 

"That  we  well  believe,"  murmered  Gerasimos,  with  con- 
viction. 

Nicodemus  shot  a  suspicious  glance  at  his  friend,  but 
the  simple  and  almost  meaningless  smile  upon  the  plebeian 
face  reassured  him.  After  a  dignified  pause,  he  con- 
tinued : 

;<  Brother  Josephus  was  not  permitted  to  descend.  It 
was  judged  a  temptation.  So  he  used  to  shout  down  to 
her  from  the  tower  of  the  windlass,  and  she  used  to 
scream  up  to  him  from  the  path — with  difficulty,  you 
understand,  she  being  feeble  and  he  deaf.  She  came  once 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  61 

a  year  for  six  or  seven  years.  Ay,  every  single  summer 
as  regular  as  leaves  on  our  fig-tree — and  all  for  half  an 
hour's  talk.  Then,  one  winter — in  the  month  of  January 
it  befell,  for  I  remember  our  wood  ran  short — Brother 
Josephus  died.  They  were  constrained  to  tell  her  when 
she  came.  I  was  at  Hagios  Triada  that  day.  They  shouted 
the  news  down  to  her.  It  took  a  long  time  to  make  her 
understand."  He  wrinkled  his  forehead,  then  added: 
"  There  was  something  else  odd  about  him,  too,  if  I  could 
only  remember. ' ' 

Leaving  the  friends  still  deep  in  gossip,  Petros  made 
his  way  toward  the  tower  of  the  windlass.  As  he  passed 
the  door  of  No.  15  he  paused  to  listen,  but  all  was  quiet. 

The  little  old  monastery  basked  and  baked  in  the  strong 
sun.  The  veil  of  quivering  light  and  heat  tempered  its 
mediaeval  severity  and  imparted  to  it  an  air  of  drowsy 
unconcern.  The  sombre  and  blood-stained  pages  in  its 
history — pages  of  ruthless  persecution  and  fierce  retalia- 
tion— were  forgotten.  The  cruelty  that,  linked  to  love  and 
self-sacrifice,  still  slept  in  its  fanatical  heart  was  disguised ; 
and,  drugged  with  draughts  of  sunlight,  Barlaam  gave  itself 
up  to  the  warm  and  slumbrous  influence  of  the  summer 
morning. 

But  beneath  this  appearance  of  inertia  there  lurked 
always  a  suggestion  of  barbarism,  conveyed  it  may  be  by  a 
certain  old-world  grimness  of  aspect. 

The  merciless  light  accentuated  its  antiquity  and  rendered 
its  silence  more  impressive.  Everything  about  it  spoke  of 
age.  Even  its  shadows  seemed  old.  Not  a  crumbling  stone, 
not  a  worm-eaten  rafter,  but  took  the  imagination  back 
— back  to  the  dark  ages,  to  wild  and  lawless  times,  to  an 
inconceivably  remote  past  rendered  dim  and  mysterious 
by  the  living  present.  This  distinctive  atmosphere  had  all 
the  disquieting  fascination,  the  haunting  uneasy  attraction 
that  characterises  the  unknown.  To  come  under  its  spell 
was  to  grow  mentally  restless,  to  give  way  to  vague  fears, 
to  become  apprehensive  of  one  knew  not  what. 

It  was  not  wholly  without  animation.  At  times  a  black- 
robed  brother  would  cross  the  open  sunlit  space,  or  descend 
one  of  the  small,  irregular  flights  of  stairs,  moving  slowly 
and  with  feeble  steps,  and  would  disappear  into  some  dark 
entrance;  at  times  the  silence  would  be  broken  by  the 


62  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

murmur  of  distant  voices,  or  by  the  faint  sound  of  sandals 
dragged  listlessly  over  warm  flagstones. 

The  thin  air  told  of  extreme  altitude.  Nothing  of  the 
incomparable  view  could  be  seen,  the  courtyard  being 
hedged  about  by  monastic  buildings,  but  in  the  pure  atmos- 
phere and  fierce  white  light  every  detail  stood  out  trenchant 
and  clear. 

There  were  the  cloisters,  with  the  semantron  suspended 
between  two  of  the  squat  grey  pillars — the  corridor,  out 
of  which  opened  the  cells  of  the  brethren — the  Byzantine 
church  with  its  circular  dome,  stained  and  moss-clad,  old 
as  Christianity  itself — the  black  and  labyrinthine  passages 
— the  one  gnarled  fig-tree,  with  leaves  green  and  lustrous 
against  the  rotting  woodwork  of  the  refectory — the  granite 
of  the  aged  walls  sun-steeped  and  weather-worn — all  hud- 
dled on  a  tiny  space,  lifted  high  above  the  world. 

Time  seemed  to  have  forgotten  it.  Death  stole  its  in- 
mates one  by  one,  but  the  little  monastery  lived  on,  silent 
as  are  the  very  aged,  brooding  continually  on  the  past. 

Petros  looked  at  his  surroundings  with  unconscious  ap- 
proval. The  little  court,  with  its  air  of  stagnation  and 
decay,  held  for  him  nothing  but  sunshine  and  happiness. 
As  he  ran  down  the  steps  his  youth  and  activity  were 
very  apparent.  In  his  head  the  refrain  of  a  Greek  chant 
droned  persistently.  He  had  taken  part  in  it  nightly, 
oftener  indeed  than  he  could  remember,  reiterating  it 
drowsily  as  he  stood  beside  his  grey-bearded  companions. 
It  expressed  thankfulness — only  a  few  words  set  to  the  old 
and  almost  forgotten  chorus-music  of  the  Greeks,  but  never 
before  had  it  seemed  to  him  so  significant — a  personal  mes- 
sage— voicing  his  profound  though  unspoken  convictions. 

Where  another  youth  would  have  whistled  a  popular 
melody,  Petros  sang  church  music.  This  he  did  from  no 
promptings  of  piety,  but  simply  because  he  felt  happy. 

As  he  drank  in  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  the  morn- 
ing, the  sensation  of  weariness  and  want  of  sleep  which 
had  oppressed  him  in  the  Catholicon  dropped  from  him, 
giving  place  to  a  desire  for  exercise,  and  a  healthy  long- 
ing for  breakfast.  And  all  the  time,  in  the  background 
of  his  mind,  he  was  pleasantly  conscious  of  something 
unusual  in  the  air,  connected,  when  he  allowed  his  thoughts 
to  dwell  upon  it,  with  the  arrival  of  a  new  inmate, 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  63 

Having  lowered  the  ladder — his  daily  duty  as  the  young- 
est of  the  brethren — Petros  again  sought  the  dormitories, 
and,  unable  any  longer  to  restrain  his  impatience,  knocked 
eagerly  at  the  door  of  Zetitzka's  cell.  It  opened  slowly,  al- 
most reluctantly,  he  thought,  and  the  girl  stood  before  him. 

She  made  a  striking  picture,  framed  in  the  dark  and 
narrow  doorway.  Her  Arnaut  costume,  with  all  its  brav- 
ery of  white  homespun  and  black  braid,  had  been  exchanged 
for  a  skull-cap,  a  tunic  of  coarse  grey  cloth  reaching  to  the 
knees,  cloth  gaiters,  and  leather  shoes — the  sombre  and  ill- 
fitting  dress  of  a  lay  brother.  The  boy  looked  at  her  criti- 
cally, with  undisguised  curiosity,  interesting  himself  in 
every  detail,  from  her  little  feet,  too  small  for  the  clumsy 
shoes,  to  the  set  of  her  head  upon  a  neck  unusually  stat- 
uesque. 

"Bravo!"  He  smiled  encouragingly.  "  You  look  one 
of  us  already.  But — that  tunic  does  not  become  you  so 
bravely  as  the  raiment  you  wore  last  night.  No  matter. 
'Tis  a  worthier  garb,  well  pleasing  to  God  and  the  blessed 
saints. ' '  Then,  with  quick  sympathy  as  he  noticed  her  pal- 
lor and  the  dark  lines  under  her  eyes,  "  You  slept  well,  I 
trust?  " 

Forced  to  reply,  Zetitzka  murmured  something  which  he 
took  to  be  an  affirmative,  yet  she  gave  him  food  for  wonder, 
for,  even  as  she  spoke,  her  large  wild  eyes  were  gazing  over 
his  shoulder  with  a  singularly  furtive  expression. 

"  Be  of  good  cheer,"  he  nodded  reassuringly.  "  No  call 
to  look  alarmed.  None  wicked  dare  come  here.  Ay,  these 
are  our  cloisters;  it  was  too  dark  to  see  them  last  night. 
Truly  " — he  turned  upon  her  impulsively,  his  face  breaking 
into  an  irrepressible  smile — "  right  glad  am  I  that  you  are 
here.  Come,  let  us  go  to  breakfast." 

But  Zetitzka  did  not  move.  Scarce  heeding  his  words, 
she  continued  to  gaze  around  her.  This,  then,  was  the 
monastery !  This  was  Barlaam !  She  had  seen  nothing  like 
this.  In  spite  of  the  sunshine  that  fell  like  a  river  of  flame, 
the  place  to  Zetitzka's  mind  was  fearsome — inimical.  Its 
air  of  affected  indifference  was  sinister,  suspicious.  It  put 
her  on  her  guard.  At  any  moment  something  might  happen. 
Somewhere  in  that  unfamiliar  maze  of  passages  lurked 
Stephanos.  At  any  moment  one  of  these  mysterious  little 
doors  might  open,  and  he  might  come  out.  Faint  with 


64  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

hunger  and  weary  with  want  of  sleep,  she  was  nevertheless 
strung  up  for  any  emergency,  prepared  to  confront  him,  to 
denounce  him,  and,  if  it  came  to  fighting,  to  sell  her  life 
as  dearly  as  possible. 

But  all  was  still,  peaceful,  somnolent.  The  heat  quivered 
faintly.  The  quiet  was  unbroken,  save  by  a  subdued  mur- 
mur that,  stealing  from  the  shadowy  dormitories,  told  of 
the  prayers  that  rarely  ceased  in  this  aerial  sanctuary  dedi- 
cated to  God. 

With  the  feelings  of  a  trapped  animal,  Zetitzka  cast  her 
eyes  on  high.  The  dome  of  blue  was  flawless;  above  a 
ruined  wall  that  fretted  the  east,  the  merciless  sun  was  pour- 
ing his  fire  upon  a  world  that  had  already  begun  to  pant 
and  groan  with  heat. 

Her  arrival  on  the  preceding  night  flashed  to  her  mind 
— the  great  cliffs,  the  perilous  ladders.  Was  she,  then,  so 
cut  off  from  the  world?  Was  it  possible  that,  could  she 
see  over  these  grey  and  ruinous  walls,  she  would  again  be 
rendered  dizzy  by  the  appalling  depth,  would  see  the  fields, 
the  valley,  and  the  river  that  she  had  crossed  yesterday,  all 
far,  far  below,  tiny  as  a  child's  toy? 

She  was  recalled  from  uneasy  speculation  by  her  com- 
panion. He  was  staring  at  her  with  the  utmost  friendli- 
ness, with  an  expression  that  betokened  that  he  considered 
her  in  the  light  of  a  welcome  addition  to  his  personal  prop- 
erty. This  smiling  and  proprietary  attitude  chafed  her. 
Despite  his  youth  and  evident  good-nature,  she  felt  hostile 
to  him.  He  was  a  monk.  His  tall  black  hat  and  sombre 
cassock  filled  her  with  vague  repulsion.  They  were  the 
disguise  of  Stephanos. 

'  Well,"  he  cried  cheerily,  "  what  is  it?  I  cannot  be- 
lieve you  slept  soundly.  You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  an 
evil  vision.  Nay,  be  not  in  any  wise  afraid.  Here  all  are 
friendly.  Ay,  of  a  truth,  the  brethren  are  right  anxious 
to  see  you.  Come,  let  us  go  to  breakfast." 

"  I  do  not  want  breakfast,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

He  cried  out  in  the  extremity  of  his  amazement.  "  Not 
want  breakfast!  What  folly  is  this?  And  you  who  ate 
like  a  sparrow  last  night !  Little  marvel  you  look  ill.  Nay, 
come  you  must,  for  I  am  wholly  purposed  to  take  you." 

Zetitzka  hesitated.    Again  she  cast  an  anxious  glance 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  65 

round  the  court,  and  again  she  was  half  reassured,  half 
rendered  suspicious  by  the  sunlit  stagnation.  Not  only  all 
passion,  but  all  life,  seemed  dead — all  except  this  boy  so 
strangely  full  of  vitality  at  her  side. 

"  Will — will  all  the  monks  be  there?  "  she  hazarded,  with 
unaccustomed  timidity. 

"  Where?  "  he  demanded. 

"  In  the  place  you  eat — where  you  took  me  last  night." 

"  The  refectory,  you  would  say.  Assuredly,  we  monks  " 
—he  expanded  his  chest — "  all  breakfast  together,  except, 
of  course,  the  Abbot,  and  lately  brother  Stephanos.  He 
fasts  till  the  evening  meal — a  sainted  man.  But  think  not 
you  are  to  eat  with  us  always.  Nay,  you  are  only  a  lay 
brother.  It  is  a  privilege  granted  you  to-day  by  the  kind- 
ness of  the  venerable  father.  He  did  it  for  my  sake:  he 
saw  I  liked  you.  Let  us  go.  Brother  Nicodemus  is  some- 
times wrothful  if  one  is  late.  He  helps  the  dishes,  and  it 
is  wise  to  please  him.  You  will  sit  near  me.  I  will  show 
you  everything.  Ah!  you  will  come?  Good!  " 

Like  every  event  that  had  happened  to  her  since  she 
had  entered  the  monastery,  that  meal  was  an  unforgettable 
experience  to  Zetitzka.  The  low  vaulted  hall  of  unfaced 
stone,  blackened  with  oil-smoke,  stained  with  damp, 
festooned  with  cobwebs,  appeared  more  real  than  on  the 
previous  night.  Then  she  had  been  in  a  bewildered  dream, 
scarce  cognisant  of  her  surroundings,  but  now  she  was  wide 
awake,  silently  observant,  on  her  guard,  shrinkingly  sensi- 
tive to  every  influence  of  environment. 

The  very  solidity  of  the  refectory  struck  a  chill — it  was 
her  idea  of  a  prison.  Its  little  door,  so  low  that  the  monks 
had  to  stoop  to  enter,  seemed  as  if  constructed  in  order  to 
show  the  thickness  of  the  walls.  The  lofty  windows,  mere 
slits  in  the  masonry,  let  in  but  little  light — a  circumstance, 
however,  which  caused  her  a  vague  sensation  of  relief. 

With  an.  extreme  nervousness  which  she  fought  hard  to 
conquer,  Zetitzka  seated  herself  beside  Petros  at  a  bench 
that  stood  before  a  long  wooden  table.  The  boy  continued 
talking  in  encouraging  tones,  pointing  out  anything  which 
he  thought  might  interest  her — the  arm-chair  at  the  end 
of  the  table,  to  be  presently  occupied  by  Brother  Nicodemus ; 
the  knotted  rope  suspended  from  a  nail  on  the  wall,  which 
5 


66 

was  used  in  the  penance  called  the  "  canon  ";  and,  lastly, 
his  own  name  carved  in  the  dining-table  and  surrounded 
with  an  ornamental  border. 

He  was  still  expatiating  on  this  work  of  art  when  the 
brethren  streamed  in.  Each  in  turn  genuflected  before  an 
icon  on  the  wall,  then  took  his  place.  No  sooner  were  all 
seated  and  grace  droned  by  Nicodemus,  than  two  lay 
brethren  brought  in  steaming  dishes  of  vegetables  which 
exhaled  a  pungent  odour. 

To  be  forced  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  so  many  masculine 
eyes  was  a  terrible  ordeal  to  Zetitzka.  Scarcely  daring  to 
raise  her  head,  she  concentrated  her  attention  upon  her 
plate.  Every  moment  she  felt  as  if  her  secret  must  be  dis- 
covered, and  she  herself  denounced  before  the  community. 
But  the  moment  passed  and  nothing  happened. 

Gaining  courage,  she  ventured  a  look  at  her  companions. 
All  wore  the  tall  black  hats  of  their  order;  all,  with  the 
exception  of  Petros,  were  aged  men ;  all  betrayed  an  almost 
feverish  gluttony,  saying  no  word  but  "  kalo!  halo!  "  be- 
tween every  gulp  of  food  or  wine.  The  scene,  the  costumes, 
the  dim  light,  and  the  knowledge  that  all  this  was  taking 
place  upon  the  summit  of  an  isolated  rock,  struck  her  with 
an  undying  newness  of  consternation.  It  made  her  feel 
so  far  away,  so  helpless.  The  extreme  incongruity  of  her 
presence  there — a  woman  among  all  these  men — came  upon 
her  suddenly.  She  could  have  laughed  aloud  in  utter 
nervousness. 

Unknown  to  herself,  the  age  of  the  place  and  the  out- 
landish appearance  of  the  brethren  oppressed  her.  She 
could  not  banish  it  from  her  mind  that,  did  they  but  know 
her  sex,  did  they  but  know  her  intentions,  not  one  among 
these  peaceable  old  men,  whose  entire  minds  were  so 
obviously  bent  upon  the  business  of  eating,  but  would  spring 
up  in  horror.  What  would  happen  to  her  then  she  dared 
not  imagine. 

Nor  did  the  conversation,  when  the  edge  was  taken  from 
their  appetites,  set  her  more  at  her  ease.  It  referred 
to  things  about  which  she  knew  nothing.  Once  the  name 
of  Stephanos  was  mentioned,  but  it  was  only  a  remark  re- 
ferring to  the  ownership  of  an  object  left  by  accident  in 
the  Catholicon.  The  conversation  passed  to  other  matters, 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  67 

but  Zetitzka  felt  as  though  everyone  present  must  have 
noticed  her  discomposure. 

Several  of  the  brethren  began  to  take  an  interest  in  the 
new  lay  brother,  displaying  much  nai've  curiosity.  Zetitzka 
was  made  to  feel  that  her  coming  was  an  event  in  their 
lives,  that  all  she  could  tell  them  was  public  property — their 
right,  as  it  were ;  news  from  the  great  world  to  that  isolated 
height  to  which  so  little  news  ascended. 

Their  questions,  being  of  a  personal  and  searching  char- 
acter, would  have  embarrassed  her,  had  it  not  been  for  her 
young  companion.  As  though  aware  of  her  reluctance  to 
being  cross-examined,  he  came  to  the  rescue,  replying  to 
some  of  the  questions,  parrying  others,  and  all  with  good- 
humour  and  a  flow  of  high  spirits  that  would  have  infected 
any  company  save  that  of  the  old  men  among  whom  he 
lived. 

Even  they,  at  times,  showed  faint  signs  of  amusement 
— the  involuntary  twinkle  of  a  bleared  eye,  the  sudden  ex- 
pansion of  a  munching  mouth.  Their  treatment  of  this  boy 
astonished  Zetitzka.  They  seemed  to  look  upon  him  as 
one  of  themselves,  yet  with  a  thinly-disguised  complacency, 
an  almost  paternal  affection  of  manner,  suitable  had  he 
been  a  spoiled  child.  Thus,  when  one  of  their  number — 
Nicodemus,  a  sour-faced  old  man  with  bad  teeth — reproved 
him  for  undue  levity,  the  others  exchanged  explanatory 
glances,  nodding,  as  who  should  say :  ' '  We  deplore  it ;  but 
'tis  for  the  lad's  good." 

As  he  ate,  Petros  took  note  of  his  new  comrade,  approv- 
ingly, but  with  boyish  reservations.  The  pale  face  beside 
him,  and  the  long,  dark  lashes  that  concealed  the  downcast 
eyes,  appealed  to  him,  he  knew  not  why.  He  supposed  it 
was  because  the  new-comer  looked  young.  He  wished  this 
lay  brother  would  not  look  so  sad,  so  visibly  ill  at  ease,  but 
consoled  himself  by  a  determination  to  show  him  over  the 
monastery  after  breakfast.  As  an  antidote  to  sorrow,  he 
made  a  point  of  seeing  that  she  too  had  a  lavish  helping  of 
vegetables,  and  was  shocked  to  the  point  of  ejaculations  at 
her  contemptible  appetite.  Under  cover  of  the  general 
conversation,  he  pressed  her  to  eat  in  short,  indignant 
remonstrances — evidently  full  of  fear  lest  the  others  should 
notice  her  shortcomings  and  think  less  of  her  in  conse- 


68  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

quence.  From  time  to  time  he  criticised  her  patronisingly. 
The  intense  blue-black  gleam  of  her  hair,  visible  below  her 
lay  brother's  cap,  caught  his  attention.  He  never  saw  his 
own — the  monastery  not  possessing  a  looking-glass — but  he 
mentally  compared  it  with  the  curly  locks  of  Dimitri  the 
muleteer.  He  hoped  her  hands  were  stronger  than  they 
looked.  He  thought,  too,  he  had  never  seen  such  small 
ears.  Something  wild  and  shy  about  her  awoke  his 
curiosity.  Even  when  he  spoke  to  her,  her  answers — always 
short,  and  as  it  were,  under  compulsion — would  be  followed 
swiftly  by  a  silent,  repressed  anxiety,  as  if  her  thoughts, 
tied  for  a  moment  by  the  conversation,  were  put  to  the 
panic  of  sudden  flight  by  the  recollection  of  some  abiding 
danger. 
This,  he  reasoned  to  himself,  was  mere  foolishness ! 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  meal  over,  Petros  took  Zetitzka  to  the  Catholicon. 
The  day  was  hot,  the  sun  blazing  in  a  cloudless  sky. 
Strong  shadows  lay  like  pools  of  blue  ink  upon  the  glaring 
dust  of  the  courtyard.  The  drowsy  air  was  stirred  lan- 
guidly by  the  hum  of  flies. 

As  they  entered  the  sacred  building,  a  chill  breath  met 
them,  contrasting  forcibly  with  the  warm,  quivering  atmos- 
phere without. 

"  This  is  the  Pronoas,"  explained  Petros,  indicating  the 
porch.  "  And  those,"  he  pointed  to  the  mural  paintings, 
"  are  the  damned." 

Zetitzka  gazed  at  the  evidences  of  man's  imaginative 
cruelty — they  struck  a  kindred  note  with  some  inner  depth 
of  tragedy  in  her  heart. 

"  Look  at  that  poor  soul."  He  pointed  to  a  shrinking 
sinner  being  thrust  back  into  the  flames  by  the  pitchfork 
of  a  particularly  malignant  fiend.  "  Poor  soul,  in  all 
verity !  What  joy  can  he  now  have  of  all  worldly  delights ! 
'Tis  doubtless  merited;  yet  I  confess,  never  do  I  see  him, 
or  any  of  these,  but  I  long  to  save  .  .  .  'For  ever  and 
ever/  Angelos.  'Tis  a  solemn,  ay,  and  a  fearful  thought. 
By  the  Saints,  right  glad  am  I  that  you  came  to  us  in 
time!  " 

"  And  the  devils,"  continued  the  grave  young  voice,  after 
a  pause.  "  What  puzzles  me  is  why  are  they  happy? 
They  are  more  wicked  than  the  sinners.  Why  are  they 
happy?  I  cannot  understand.  It  angers  me.  Look  at 
that  blue  one  breathing  red  flames;  ay,  he  with  the  curly 
tail.  He  enjoys  it!  He  laughs!  Why?  Had  I  my 
way "  He  shook  his  fist  at  the  leering  face,  then  con- 
tinued:— "  Brother  Nicodemus  repainted  him  lately,  he  was 
sadly  weather-beaten.  '  Make  him  sad, '  said  I,  as  I  watched 
from  below, '  make  him  suffer  likewise.'  But  nay,  all  must 
be  as  before." 

69 


70  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Slowly  they  wandered  into  the  cool  shadows  that  seemed 
to  doze  in  the  silence. 

"  That  is  my  stall."  Petros  paused  before  the  row  of 
black  seats  that  ran  round  the  interior.  "  Behold,  it  faces 
the  pulpit.  I  can  watch  the  venerable  father  when  he 
preaches,  Brother  Elias  now,  can  only  hear  him,  and  that 
with  difficulty.  It  must  be  irksome  to  sit  behind  a  pillar. 
But  he  is  oftentimes  asleep.  Last  night  again  it  took  place, 
and  we  lit  that  candle  by  his  side,  and  he  had  to  do  penance. 
Come  this  way." 

' '  "Where — where  does  Stephanos  sit  ?  " 

The  question  was  faltered  half  under  her  breath.  She 
was  looking  round  uneasily.  Her  guide  smiled  upon  her. 

"  No  one  sits  here.  'Tis  forbidden  during  service.  Did 
you  not  know  that?  But  there  is  the  stall  of  Brother 
Stephanos — the  fourth  from  mine. ' ' 

She  looked  at  it  darkly.  In  imagination  she  pictured  the 
gaunt  figure  of  the  man  she  knew  so  well,  standing  there 
hour  by  hour,  engrossed  in  this  world  of  religion,  while  she 
had  been  suffering,  brought  low  to  the  very  dust  in  her 
mountain  home. 

"  Where  is  he  now?  "  she  asked. 

Petros  wondered  at  her  tone.  He  thought  he  had  never 
seen  so  strange  a  boy. 

"  I  know  not,"  he  answered  indifferently. 

She  continued,  still  visibly  plunged  in  thought : — ' '  Is  he 
sometimes  to  be  found  alone?  " 

' '  Alone  ?  I  suppose — nay,  I  cannot  tell.  What  strange 
questions  you  ask. ' ' 

"But— in  his  cell?  " 

"  Ay,  in  his  cell  is  he  alone;  none  but  the  venerable 
father  can  visit  him  there. ' ' 

"  No.  18?  " 

"  Assuredly.     But— how  came  you  to  know  that?  " 

"  One  of  the  lay  brethren  told  me." 

"  Sotiri?  " 

|  Yes." 

"  So,  you  have  already  had  converse  with  him?  He  is 
a  rude  fellow.  But  if  you  do  your  work  he  dare  not 
molest  you ;  but  take  my  advice  and  keep  friendly  with  him 
as  long  as  you  are  a  lay  brother.  Ay,  that  is  the  pillar  I 
told  you  of,  and  these  are  the  little  devils— there  are  ten 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  71 

of  them,  but  you  cannot  see  them  all  from  here.  Look  at 
that  carving!  You  will  not  find  its  equal  in  any  of  the 
other  monasteries.  Rich  travellers  come  from  far  to  see 
it.  And  that  screen.  Come  nearer.  Beautiful,  is  it  not? 
And  that  icon !  Most  holy !  There  is  a  legend  attached  to 
it  that  I  will  relate  to  you  some  day." 

His  chatter  fell  almost  unheeded  upon  her  ears.  Her 
feet  followed  him  mechanically.  She  felt  that  at  any  mo- 
ment she  might  wake  up  to  find  herself  back  in  her  mountain 
village — back  with  the  baby  for  whom  she  yearned ;  yet  the 
weight  upon  her  heart  and  the  knowledge  of  something 
terrible  to  be  done  oppressed  her  continually.  Little  by 
little  her  surroundings  imprinted  themselves  upon  her  mind 
almost  without  her  consciousness,  awakening  awe  and  super- 
stitious fear.  The  dimly-lit  spaces;  the  venerable  pillars 
adorned  with  antique  pictures;  the  walls  covered  with 
terribly  realistic  representations — the  Last  Judgment, 
scenes  from  the  Apocalypse,  the  martyrdom  of  the  Saints 
— the  high  reading-desk;  the  pulpit  of  worm-eaten  wood, 
elaborately  carved,  and  black  with  age;  and  the  icon  of 
the  Virgin  that  had  thwarted  her  upon  the  preceding  night 
— all  associated  themselves — not  with  Petros,  not  with  the 
present,  but  with  Stephanos,  with  her  failure,  and  with  the 
imperative  necessity  for  doing  something  soon. 

Troubled  to  the  very  depths,  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
eyes.  Again  she  became  conscious  of  the  voice  of  her  com- 
panion. 

"  The  venerable  father  is  drawn  to  you.  He  told  me 
so.  That  is  why  he  has  given  you  Sotiri's  work  here,  yes, 
in  the  Catholicon,  and  a  cell  of  your  own  among  us  monks, 
instead  of  making  you  sleep  with  the  other  lay  brethren 
near  the  kitchens.  'Tis  unusual,  but  come  to  me  if  they 
resent  it. ' ' 

"  What  work?  "    She  roused  herself  with  an  effort. 

"  Oh,  there  is  much  to  be  done.  You  must  sweep  the 
floor  every  day.  Then  you  must  clean  the  icons,  stalls, 
misereres,  and  desks;  yes,  and  attend  to  the  candles.  See, 
there  are  two  now  that  need  replacing. ' ' 

He  pointed  to  the  dome  overhead  from  which  a  weighty 
brasswork  corona  decorated  with  ostrich  eggs  hung  sus- 
pended by  chains. 

"Is  it  worth  while?  " 


72  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

He  turned  upon  her  in  swift  amazement. 

"  Worth  while!     To  replace  the  candles!  " 

"  No,  not  that.     I  meant  I  shall  be  here  only  for " 

She  broke  off  in  confusion.  In  the  dim  light  she  saw  his 
face,  full  of  consternation,  standing  out  against  the  sombre 
background  of  the  Sanctuary. 

' '  But — you  mean  to  become  one  of  us !  You  told  me  so 
yesterday." 

She  did  not  reply. 

He  stared  at  her  incredulously  for  a  minute,  then,  as  one 
who  ridicules  a  preposterous  idea : — 

"Bah!  I  am  foolish  even  to  imagine  it.  You  would 
never  come  here  just — just  to  go  away  again !  That  is  not 
even  common  sense.  But,  be  cheerful,  you  will  not  always 
have  to  work;  some  day,  you  will  become  a  monk — like 
me."  He  drew  himself  up  with  youthful  arrogance. 
"  Oh,  it  is  a  beautiful  life!  It  pleaseth  me  well.  Our 
prayers  do  good  to  everyone — even  as  leaven  in  the  world 's 
loaf,  so  are  we. ' ' 

This  was  a  distinct  plagiarism  from  one  of  the  Abbot's 
sermons,  and  was  delivered  with  unconscious  mimicry  of 
voice  and  gesture. 

"  Now,"  he  went  on  gravely,  pointing  through  the  doors 
of  open  carved  woodwork  that  led  to  the  sacristy,  ' '  in  there 
you  will  find  two  chests — one  for  charcoal  the  other  for 
vestments;  the  charcoal  you  will,  of  course,  heat  for 
the  censers ;  it  is  required  at  almost  all  services ;  as  for  the 
vestments — but  you  will  soon  find  out  for  yourself  which 
are  required.  Come,  my  Angelos."  He  turned  from  her 
with  a  beckoning  gesture  full  of  friendly  invitation. 

Like  one  still  in  a  dream  she  followed  him  across  the 
nave  with  its  floor  of  faintly-coloured  marble.  His  lithe 
young  figure  looked  strangely  full  of  vitality  in  the  midst 
of  much  that  spoke  only  of  decay.  Everything  around 
them  was  old — incredibly  old — polished  and  mellowed  and 
dimmed  by  time.  From  overhead,  in  faded  frescoes,  stiff 
pious  groups  of  little  Byzantine  saints  who  had  witnessed 
centuries  of  worship,  gazed  down  upon  them. 

'  These — "  he  halted  before  the  central  entrance — "  are 
called  the  Holy  Doors.  Within  is  the  Bema  or  sanctuary. 
You  see  that  table  ?  That  is  the  Holy  Table  with  the  balda- 
kin  above  it.  The  Eucharist  is  kept  in  that  little  box  and 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  73 

the  Bread  and  Wine  are  in  the  Prothesis.  This —  '  he 
stepped  forward  and  touched  with  reverent  fingers  a  cor- 
poral of  fair  white  linen — "  is  the  blessed  Antimins.  Re- 
member, it  contains  a  portion  of  most  holy  relics,  and  is  on 
no  account  to  be  touched  by  the  laity.  The  larger  relics 
and  the  most  precious  of  our  treasures  are  in  these  two 
cupboards.  The  Abbot  keeps  the  key,  but  you  will  see  them 
at  the  great  festivals — magnificent ! — all  gold  and  precious 
stones!  " 

Bewilderment  showed  itself  in  her  face,  for  he  added 
quickly : — 

' '  I  have  not  explained  it  well  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes — but — I  shall  never  remember  all  that — never!  " 

His  eyes  twinkled. 

' '  'Tis  true !  ' '  she  insisted  earnestly.  ' '  Anti — Anti — 
There !  I  have  forgotten  already !  ' ' 

"  Antimins,"  he  corrected  gravely.  "  But — have  you 
never  been  in  a  church  before  ?  "  he  added,  visibly  shocked. 

"  Yes,  but  not  quite  like  this." 

"Where  was  it?  " 

"  It  was ' 

' '  Stop !  ' '  He  raised  his  hand  impulsively.  ' '  The 
venerable  father  forbade  me  to  ask  questions.  I  have  dis- 
obeyed him — may  I  be  forgiven.  Now  only  one  thing 
more  and  then  must  I  sleep,  for  verily  my  eyes  close  even 
of  themselves.  Do  you  know  our  hours?  Nay?  Then 
wisely  take  heed,  for  you  will  have  to  be  present  at  some 
if  not  all  of  our  services.  We  begin  at  midnight,  when  we 
recite  the  night  offices,  and  the  first,  third,  and  sixth  Hours. 
That  lasts  till  five  o'clock,  when  we  have  an  hour  to  our- 
selves. I  am  wont  to  have  a  cup  of  coffee  and  go  to  the  tower 
of  the  windlass  on  summer  mornings.  At  six  we  come  back 
here  and  sing  the  Liturgy,  which  lasts  till  eight,  and  on 
Sundays  and  festivals  till  ten.  After  that  we  breakfast. 
The  others  jest  at  my  appetite.  Then  we  sleep  and  are 
supposed  to  meditate,  but  verily  I  am  of  a  mind  that  the 
only  one  who  meditates  devoutly  is  the  venerable  father. 
At  three  in  the  afternoon  we  sing  Vespers  and  the  ninth 
Hour.  At  six  we  recite  Compline.  Supper  is  nigh  sun- 
down, after  the  which,  to  bed.  Behold !  That  is  all!  " 

He  did  not  wait  for  a  reply,  but  began  to  polish  the 
frame  of  an  icon. 


74 

"  You  will  be  there?  "  she  asked. 

"  Where?  "  he  questioned,  still  polishing. 

"  At  all  these  services?  " 

"  No  manner  of  doubt!  Am  not  I  a  monk?  As  im- 
portant as  any  of  them?  Look,  the  dirt  of  this  icon  is 
right  shameful.  Hearken! — "  he  turned  to  her — "now 
that  you  are  custodian  you  must  in  no  wise  allow  things 
to  become  rusty.  You  see,"  he  cast  a  furtive  glance  over 
his  shoulder,  then,  cautiously  lowering  his  voice,  "  Brother 
Nicodemus  hath  a  biting  tongue ;  ay,  and  Brother  Apostoli  's 
arm  is  exceedingly  strong  considering  his  great  age."  He 
nodded  his  tall  hat,  pursing  his  lips  significantly.  There 
was  a  distinct  suggestion  of  a  defensive  alliance  in  his  man- 
ner. It  emboldened  her  to  say : — ' '  And  if  I  need  help 

His  laugh  rang  out,  instantly  suppressed,  however.  The 
rollicking  sound  touched  a  strangely  impossible  note  in  the 
solemn  half-light.  It  brought  into  the  sacred  building  the 
very  spirit  of  youth  and  merriment.  The  dark  vault  over- 
head re-echoed  the  sound,  but  faintly,  as  in  a  shocked 
whisper.  Petros  listened  aghast. 

"  God  forgive  me!  "he  ejaculated,  with  lively  penitence. 
"  Never  before  have  I  laughed  here.  But  the  fault  is 
yours. ' ' 

''Mine!" 

"  Ay,  yours.  By  the  rood,  you  are  enough  to  make  a 
saint  laugh — if  ever  they  did  laugh."  He  cast  a  dubious 
glance  at  the  row  of  countenances  that  frowned  from  the 
cornice,  then  resumed  quickly: — "  But  how  can  one  re- 
quire help  to  clean  the  icons?  " 

She  could  not  explain.  Her  imagination  had  pictured  a 
possible  catastrophe  when  she  would  be  one  against  many. 
To  cover  her  confusion  she  fell  to  examining  the  hilt  of 
her  yataghan. 

''What  have  you  there — a  knife?"  he  asked  with 
curiosity. 

She  started,  for  she  had  been  unconscious  of  her  action. 

"  Let  me  see  it." 

Reluctantly,  she  drew  the  blade  from  its  sheath  and 
handed  it  to  him.  He  examined  it  with  open  mouth.  The 
cold,  blue  glitter  of  the  steel  caught  at  the  light,  reflecting 
itself  upwards  into  the  boyish  face  shining  above  it  with 
admiration.  The  suggestion  of  violence  had  a  strange  look 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  75 

in  the  hands  of  a  monk  and  in  the  devotional  character 
of  their  surroundings. 

"  Saint  Panteleemon !  "  he  ejaculated  again  and  again, 
turning  the  weapon  this  way  and  that.  Then  running  an 
appreciative  thumb  along  the  blade-edge.  "  By  Saint  Bar- 
laam,  this  could  cut  anything — anything!  " 

After  a  little  he  handed  it  back  to  her,  his  eyes  follow- 
ing it  wistfully  as  she  returned  it  to  its  sheath. 

"  You  always  carry  a  knife  like  that?  "  he  asked  with 
new-born  respect. 

That  her  negative  disappointed  him  was  evident,  but 
struck  with  a  thought  he  brightened.  "  You  could  an  it 
pleased  you,  eh?  " 

"  Y— es." 

"  And  on  a  pilgrimage?  " 

She  nodded  doubtfully. 

"  I  have  never  been  on  a  pilgrimage — at  least,  not  since 
I  was  an  infant,  and  even  then  it  was  not  a  real  pilgrimage, 
but  only  journeying  here  with  my  father.  But  with  a  knife 

like  that "  He  paused,  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  old 

pulpit,  then  added :  "  You  will  not  be  permitted  to  keep  it 
here." 

Her  start  was  not  lost  on  him,  for  he  continued:  "  "We 
are  peaceable  folk  here — that  is  what  the  Abbot  said  to  me 
once  when  I  bled  Sotiri's  nose.  I  caught  him  throwing 
stones  at  my  eagle ;  right  insolent  he  was,  and  would  in  no 
wise  desist.  But,  alas!  here  none  are  permitted  to  carry 
weapons ;  otherwise  ' ' — he  turned  to  her  in  good-natured 
scorn — "  do  you  suppose  for  an  instant  I  would  not  have 
as  good,  nay,  a  better  knife  than  that — ay,  and  a  gun  like- 
wise? " 

His  gesture  gave  the  impression  of  a  man  armed  to  the 
teeth.  Calming  somewhat,  he  continued :  "It  were  seemly 
you  gave  it  to  me. ' ' 

Zetitzka  drew  back ;  her  hand  closed  involuntarily  on  the 
hilt. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  he  cried,  flushing  under  the  clear  brown 
of  his  skin.  "  'Tis  not  for  myself.  I  swear  it!  It  be- 
hoves me  to  give  it  to  the  venerable  father." 

She  stared  at  him  mute,  hostile. 

"  Nay,"  he  remonstrated  warmly.  "  Glare  not  at  me 
like  that.  I  am  your  friend.  The  Abbot  knows  well  I  like 


76  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

you.  Come,  my  brother,  be  reasonable.  I  am  indeed  con- 
strained thereto.  You  must  see  that.  Come,  be  persuaded. ' ' 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  she  clasped  the  weapon  the 
tighter.  He  seemed  astonished,  genuinely  distressed.  A 
puzzled  look  overspread  his  face.  He  had  the  air  of  one 
forced  by  circumstances  to  the  discharge  of  a  very  dis- 
agreeable duty. 

"  I  am  your  superior,"  he  said  with  a  gravity,  a  dignity, 
which  he  had  not  led  her  to  expect.  "  All  here  must 
obey.  Look  you,  I  also  have  to  obey  superiors — ay,  all 
the  brethren,  for  hitherto  I  have  been  the  youngest.  A 
mere  boy  like  you  must  learn  obedience  likewise."  He 
paused,  then  her  continued  silence  sapping  at  his  patience, 
"  Come,"  he  said  firmly,  "  give  it  to  me  at  once." 

"No." 

He  caught  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  leave  it  with  me!  "  she  pleaded.  "  I  must — I 
will  have  it!" 

"  Must!    Will!    Nay,  that  is  too  much!  " 

Her  face,  white  and  determined  in  the  dim  light,  was 
raised  to  his.  Desperation  glittered  in  her  eyes.  Petros  was 
taken  aback.  Never  in  all  his  experience  had  there  been 
such  a  novice.  In  righteous  indignation  his  grasp  tightened. 

' '  Saint  Panteleemon !  "  he  ejaculated,  the  blood  mount- 
ing to  his  forehead.  * '  You  defy  me !  Good.  We  shall 
see  who  is  the  stronger."  And  with  that  he  began  to 
drag  her  towards  the  door.  With  all  her  force  she  re- 
sisted. But  his  grip  was  like  a  vice.  Her  feet  slipped  in- 
effectually on  the  worn  marble  flags.  Another  moment  and 
they  would  reach  the  cloisters. 

"  Stay!  "  she  panted.     "  I— I  will  give  it." 

"  Polycala!  That  is  well  for  you.  Truly  you  are 
obstinate.  By  the  blessed  right  hand  of  Saint  Ann,  'tis 
in  my  mind  that  I  ought  to  bring  you  before  the  venerable 
father  after  all;  'twould  be  safer." 

Taking  possession  of  her  yataghan,  he  concealed  it  be- 
neath his  cassock.  They  faced  each  other  in  the  solemn 
gloom.  Both  were  still  breathless  from  the  scuffle.  Now 
that  he  had  been  successful,  a  feeling  of  compunction  arose 
in  the  boy's  mind — a  feeling  almost  of  regret  for  the  part 
he  had  been  forced  to  play,  and  a  doubt  as  to  whether  moral 
persuasion  would  not,  after  all,  have  been  kinder  and  also 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  77 

more  suited  to  his  dignity.  He  had  the  unsatisfactory  in- 
stinct that  he  had  gained  nothing — beyond  the  mere  posses- 
sion of  the  weapon — by  his  display  of  brute  force.  His 
liking  for  her  was  very  genuine.  He  hoped  that  he  had 
not  alienated  her.  He  much  feared  it,  for  she  stood  be- 
fore him,  her  dark  eyes  full  of  resentment,  her  breast  still 
heaving,  her  nostrils  slightly  dilated,  the  quick  colour  suf- 
fusing the  pale  olive  of  her  cheeks,  erect,  defiant,  uncon- 
quered  in  spirit. 

With  a  vague  idea  of  making  amends,  Petros  laid  his 
hand  affectionately  on  her  arm.  The  unexpected  sensa- 
tion of  roundness  and  softness  imparted  by  the  contact 
made  him  forget  what  he  was  about  to  say.  His  fingers 
squeezed  the  firm  flesh  wonderingly. 

"  How  soft  you  are !  "  he  ejaculated. 

With  a  sudden  instinctive  movement  Zetitzka  jerked  her- 
self from  his  grasp. 

For  the  moment  she  hated  this  plain-spoken  young  monk, 
hated  him  for  exposing  her  weakness,  for  triumphing  over 
her,  for  treating  her  with  this  insufferable  air  of  kindly 
superiority.  Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  smarting,  angry 
tears  of  vexation  which  took  her  by  surprise.  Disdaining 
to  hide  her  emotion,  she  endeavoured  to  show  a  brave  front, 
staring  him  full  in  the  face,  though  his  image  blurred  into 
the  wavering  background  of  the  stalls.  His  astonishment 
and  consternation  were  unfeigned. 

"  You  are  not  crying?  "  he  blurted. 

"  No,"  she  muttered,  then  bit  her  under  lip. 

He  eyed  her  in  grave  disapproval.  "  You  do  not  speak 
the  truth.  There  are  tears  in  your  eyes.  To  cry  per- 
chance is  weak,  but  to  lie  is  wrong. ' ' 

She  vouchsafed  no  reply.  He  continued  to  gaze  at  her. 
vaguely  uncomfortable,  stirred  into  some  liveliness  of  re- 
morse at  the  sight  of  her  grief.  A  great  desire  to  become 
reconciled  caused  him  to  say  with  unaccustomed  gentle- 
ness, and  in  a  tone  of  apology  that  made  him  wonder  when 
he  reflected  later  that  he  had  been  addressing  a  mere  lay 
brother : 

"  Tell  me,  Angelos,  was  it  because  I  hurt  you?  " 

Her  negative  reassured  him.  It  also  restored  her  in  his 
estimation,  for,  boy-like,  he  would  have  found  it  difficult 
to  excuse  tears  caused  merely  by  physical  pain.  Forget- 


78  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

ful  of  his  former  rebuff,  and  with  engaging  impulsiveness, 
he  threw  his  arm  about  her. 

"  Nay,"  he  protested,  half  coaxingly,  half  insistently, 
as  she  tried  to  free  herself,  "  I  will  not  leave  you  alone! 
See,  I  am  truly  sorry  I  hurt  your  feelings,  but  verily  I 
could  not  help  it.  You  believe  that?  Nay,  you  must 
believe  it,  for  it  is  true.  We  are  friends  still — good  friends, 
are  we  not?  I  do  not  mind  your  being  soft.  You  can- 
not help  it.  I  suppose  it  is  the  way  one  is  born.  Here 
we  are  all  born  hard,  but  at  Meteoron  there  is  one  poor 
brother  who  was  born  with  only  one  eye,  and  it  is  not  his 
fault.  As  for  your  knife,  it  is  still  yours;  but  I  have  to 
give  it  to  the  Abbot.  He  will  keep  it  for  you  in  his  cup- 
board— he  has  some  useful  things  of  mine  there.  But  he 
will  permit  you  to  look  at  it  occasionally ;  take  comfort  in 
that." 


CHAPTER  X 

SEVERAL  days  passed,  apparently  uneventfully,  yet  for 
Zetitzka  full  of  experiences  that  haunted  her  ever  after- 
wards. No  words  can  portray  with  sufficient  poignancy  the 
bewildering  effect  of  this  old-world  monastic  life  upon  the 
unsophisticated  mind  of  the  mountain  girl.  Its  austerities, 
its  unchangeable  routine,  its  long  nightly  services,  its  hours 
of  slothful  inertia,  its  lofty  isolation — all  seemed  so  many 
bars  to  freedom,  in  all  lurked  dangers  unknown,  from  all 
she  instinctively  recoiled. 

Her  utter  loneliness — when  she  allowed  herself  to  think 
— appalled  her.  Her  defencelessness — now  that  Petros  had 
taken  away  her  yataghan — struck  another  terrible  note. 
Her  very  sex — for  her  the  root  of  all  personality — had  be- 
come a  sin  which  it  was  her  one  unslumbering  preoccupa- 
tion to  conceal.  The  knowledge  that  she  was  surrounded 
by  men,  by  possible  foes,  never  left  her.  Hers  were  all 
the  terrors,  the  shrinkings,  the  sudden,  and  often  causeless 
alarms  of  the  spy  in  continual  danger  of  his  life.  But  all 
apprehensions  had  to  be  dissembled  under  an  exterior  be- 
fitting a  lay  brother,  a  "  world-forgetting,  by  the  world  for- 
got," inmate  of  Barlaam. 

And  not  the  monks  only,  but  in  a  lesser  degree,  more 
intangible,  more  inexplicable,  the  monastery  also  gave  her 
moments  of  vague  uneasiness.  Unconsciously  its  immense 
age  awed  her.  There  was,  to  her  mind,  a  grim,  callous  air 
about  it,  that  was  perhaps  but  the  reflex  of  her  guilty  con- 
science. That  she  was  the  one  and  only  woman  who  had 
dared  to  violate  its  sanctity  in  all  these  hundreds  of  years 
filled  her  with  superstitious  alarm.  It  looked  forbidding, 
masculine.  The  low-browed  buildings  seemed  to  band  them- 
selves together  to  cut  off  her  retreat,  te  take  vengeance. 
The  very  sunshine  seemed  a  mask,  the  silence  a  snare. 

But  more  disquieting  even  than  her  surroundings,  or  the 
vicinity  of  the  brethren,  was  the  knowledge  that  the  deed 
she  had  come  to  perform  remained  still  to  be  done.  This 

79 


80  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

thought  tortured  her,  gave  her  no  peace.  It  became  a 
fever  in  her  blood,  preying  on  her  health,  becoming  visible 
in  the  pallor  of  her  face  and  the  hard,  unnatural  bright- 
ness of  her  eyes.  It  even  stepped  over  the  dividing  line 
between  day  and  night,  goading  her  to  wakefulness,  or 
obsessing  her  mind  in  snatches  of  terror-haunted  sleep. 

And  if  Zetitzka  at  times  shook  herself  free  from  this 
tyranny  of  impending  necessity,  it  was  due  entirely  to 
Petros. 

Without  the  moral  support  of  this  new  friend  it  was 
doubtful  whether  the  lonely  and  suffering  girl  could  have 
endured  this  abnormal  life.  It  is  more  than  probable  that 
she  would  have  broken  down,  or  betrayed  herself  irrev- 
ocably. But  Petros,  by  distracting  her  mind,  enabled  her 
to  bear  up  against  her  anxieties.  He  made  her  initiation 
into  her  duties  a  personal  matter.  Like  a  child  with  a 
new  toy,  he  was  for  ever  seeking  her  out,  as  though  it 
needed  the  testimony  of  his  eyes,  oft  repeated,  to  convince 
him  of  her  existence.  With  the  importance  of  youth,  he 
made  solemn  assignations  with  her — at  the  end  of  the 
cloisters  two  minutes  before  the  semantron  sounded;  or  in 
the  windlass-tower  five  and  a  half  minutes  before  coffee 
was  served  of  a  morning — and  when  Zetitzka,  as  invariably 
happened,  failed  to  appear,  he  would  seek  her  out  and  over- 
whelm her  with  good-natured  reproaches. 

In  the  blackness  of  midnight  she  would  hear  his  eager 
young  voice  at  her  cell  door,  crying: — "  Angelos,  rouse 
thyself,  Matins  will  begin  directly."  Or,  in  the  drowsy 
noon-day,  when  all  the  monastery  was  asleep,  he  would 
seek  to  interest  her  with  accounts  of  some  saintly  man — 
"  high  excelling,  a  pious  example  " — who  had  left  tokens 
of  his  earthly  sojourn  behind  him — some  relic  it  might  be, 
or  remembrance  of  meditative  hours,  in  flagstones  worn  by 
slowly  pacing  feet. 

Her  mental  attitude  towards  this  young  monk  during 
these  days  of  suspense  was  singularly  complex.  He 
alone,  as  before  mentioned,  had  the  power  to  lighten  the 
gloom  in  which  she  existed.  Yet  for  this  very  reason  she 
was  perpetually  on  her  guard  against  him.  She  did  not 
want  her  mind  distracted  from  the  one  sinister  object  that 
had  forced  her  to  visit  the  monastery.  She  wished  to  be 
alone  to  think,  to  brood,  to  scheme.  Her  task,  difficult 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  81 

enough,  God  knows!  was  rendered  even  more  difficult  by 
him.  But  against  her  will,  something  within  her  wel- 
comed this  boy.  This  weakness,  when  alone,  she  un- 
hesitatingly condemned.  His  calling,  and  even  his  costume, 
had  not  ceased  to  repel  her.  Vaguely  and  disquietingly 
aware  of  his  appropriation  of  her,  she  fought  against  its 
effect.  She  desired  to  stand  alone,  to  stamp  out  all 
womanly  weakness,  to  assert  her  independence,  to  tie  her- 
self to  no  gratitude.  That  one  side  of  her  nature  should 
play  the  traitor  to  these  resolutions  troubled  her  profoundly. 
It  even  forced  her  to  treat  the  young  monk  with  a  degree 
of  coldness  which  in  reality  she  was  far  from  feeling. 

But  Zetitzka  found  it  impossible  to  adhere  to  these  resolu- 
tions. The  life  on  this  remote  pinnacle-top  was  of  necessity 
public.  The  services,  at  which  she,  as  well  as  the  brethren, 
was  forced  to  be  present,  brought  her  into  continual  contact 
with  the  other  monastic  inmates,  as  did  the  restricted  spaces 
set  aside  for  recreation.  Only  in  her  cell,  at  certain  pre- 
scribed hours,  could  she  hope  to  be  alone;  or,  if  chance 
favoured,  in  one  of  the  subterranean  passages. 

Yet  not  for  a  moment  did  Zetitzka  waver,  or  regard  the 
deed  she  had  set  out  to  perform  as  other  than  inevitable. 
She  knew  her  courage — a  virtue  that  sat  upon  her  lightly, 
almost  unconsciously,  as  natural  to  her  as  breathing. 
Within  her  heart  her  wrongs  still  cried  out  insistently. 
That  she  had  failed  once  must  count  for  naught.  She  told 
herself  valiantly,  that  she  was  sure  to  succeed  next  time. 

But  fate,  that  had  at  first  played  into  Zetitzka 's  hands, 
now  thwarted  her  at  every  turn.  She  saw  Stephanos  but 
during  meals,  in  hours  of  service,  or  hastening  from  the 
dormitories.  Speech  with  him  at  such  times  was  liable 
to  be  overheard.  Nor  did  his  leisure  hours  promise  more 
success,  being  passed  in  his  cell,  in  wandering  to  and  fro 
on  the  small  open  space  that  overhung  the  valley,  or  in 
prayer  in  the  Catholicon.  In  none  of  these  places  did 
she  feel  that  she  could  again  intrude  upon  his  privacy. 
The  brethren,  seeing  her  flitting  about  the  monastery  like 
a  restless  and  unhappy  spirit,  commented  upon  the  pecu- 
liarity, but  as  her  work  was  always  punctually  performed 
she  escaped  reproof.  Often  would  she  lie  in  wait  in  the 
cloisters,  or  lurk  in  the  deeper  shadow  of  some  arch,  or 
steal  noiselessly  across  the  empty  courtyard,  listening  or 
6 


82  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

furtively  watching  for  the  man  who  was  never  long  absent 
from  her  thoughts.  But  it  was  a  weary  and  hopeless  task, 
at  which  many  a  time  her  soul  sickened.  The  necessity  of 
nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm  became  repellent  to  her. 
Her  nature,  though  warped  for  the  time  being  and  primi- 
tive in  its  instincts,  was  large  and  broad-minded,  capable 
of  generous  emotions,  passionate  to  love,  and  fierce  to  hate, 
but  neither  revengeful  nor  underhand.  Suffering  alone 
was  responsible  for  her  acquiescence  in  the  line  of  conduct 
that  had  been  marked  out  for  her.  Her  spirit  turned  from 
this  endless  spying  as  from  a  meanness.  It  made  her  in- 
dignant with  herself,  angry  with  others,  bitter  against 
fate. 

Of  what  she  would  do  did  she  meet  him  face  to  face  she 
had  formed  no  definite  idea.  Without  her  yataghan  she 
was  helpless.  What  could  she,  a  woman  and  unarmed, 
hope  to  effect  against  him,  a  man?  Even  should  she  get 
the  better  of  him  with  one  swift  and  unexpected  leap,  a 
single  shout  on  his  part  would  bring  the  entire  community 
to  his  aid.  What  mercy  could  she  look  for  then?  Brood- 
ing over  it,  hour  by  hour,  she  felt  her  heart  swell  with 
the  burning  and  impotent  feelings  of  a  caged  lioness  which, 
deprived  of  her  offspring,  pining  for  freedom  and  thirst- 
ing for  some  courageous  revenge,  is  met  at  every  turn  by 
the  iron  bars  of  fate. 

Her  work  was  a  consolation  to  the  poor  girl  during  these 
interminable  days.  She  scrubbed  the  worn  mosaics  and 
dusted  the  black  stalls — a  lonely  and  pathetic  figure  labour- 
ing to  silence  thought  in  the  gloom  of  the  old  sanctuary. 
Yet  often,  in  the  midst  of  these  mechanical  occupations,  the 
sound  of  footsteps  from  the  sunlit  court,  or  the  unexpected 
appearance  of  one  of  the  brethren — black  in  the  radiance 
of  the  porch — would  cause  her  heart  to  leap. 

The  veneration  in  which  Stephanos  was  held  by  his 
associates  amazed  Zetitzka.  Knowing  but  too  well  the 
ignoble  side  of  his  character,  she  would  stare  incredulously 
when  she  saw  him  saluted  with  every  mark  of  respect,  or 
when  his  piety  was  commented  on  with  reverence.  Not 
only  did  all  within  the  monastery  judge  him  holy,  but  it 
was  even  whispered  that  he  held  converse  with  the  saints. 
But  his  absorption  into  the  more  austere  life  of  the  com- 
munity— a  life  that  smacked  more  of  a  mediaeval  past 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  83 

than  of  the  somewhat  lax  and  semi-Oriental  devotion  of 
the  present — neither  deceived  nor  impressed  Zetitzka. 
Bitter  experience  prevented  her  doing  justice  to  the  monks' 
asceticism.  She  was  in  no  state  of  mind  to  appreciate 
it.  She  even  made  the  mistake  of  denying  its  sincerity. 
In  it  she  saw  only  lip-service  and  hypocrisy.  There  could 
be  no  true  religion,  she  argued,  in  a  heart  such  as  his.  It 
was  but  one  and  that  an  artificial  side  of  his  nature.  Of 
the  other  she  felt  only  an  overpowering  and  instinctive 
abhorrence.  That  it  still  existed  she  felt  convinced,  led  to 
this  decision  by  her  woman's  intuition,  though  it  would 
have  puzzled  any  but  an  expert  reader  of  character  to  see 
in  this  sainted  monk  the  man  who  had  turned  her  innocent 
life  into  an  endless  and  unavailing  regret. 

"  He  saves  his  immortal  soul."  The  whispered  remark 
had  reached  her  as  she  stood  one  morning  outside  the 
refectory.  Two  of  the  brethren  were  watching  Stephanos 
as,  like  a  shadow,  he  passed  slowly  across  the  sunshine 
of  the  court.  The  murmur  of  approbation  had  awakened 
in  her  a  hot  rebellion  against  the  Providence  that  had 
meted  out  suffering  to  the  innocent  and  immunity  to  the 
guilty.  His  soul,  indeed!  What  was  his  soul  to  her! 
The  selfishness  and  the  cruelty  of  it  goaded  her  afresh — 
and  not  these  alone,  but  the  burning  injustice,  the  terrible 
power  that  is  given  to  one  human  being  to  make  or  mar 
the  life  and  happiness  of  another.  Oh,  if  only  she  had 
known!  If  only  her  good  saint  had  warned  her.  But 
no,  the  cup  of  experience  had  been  held  relentlessly  to 
her  lips;  blindly  she  had  drunk  of  it,  and  the  taste  of 
its  bitterness  would  be  with  her  always,  all  the  weary  and 
shameful  days  of  her  life. 

And  yet — so  inextricably  are  the  threads  of  tragedy 
and  comedy  interwoven  in  life's  fabric — even  in  these  days 
of  anxiety  there  occurred  incidents  of  an  almost  humorous 
cast.  Of  such  was  her  first  meeting  with  Brother 
Gerasimos. 

Several  mornings  after  her  arrival  she  was  crossing  the 
court,  having  performed  her  duties  in  the  Catholicon, 
when  she  caught  sight  of  him  seated  in  a  corner  of  the 
cloisters.  The  dejection  of  his  attitude  gave  her  courage 
to  draw  near.  Self-centred  though  she  was,  she  could 
not  but  notice  tears  in  his  bleared  little  eyes.  He  started 


84  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

at  the  sound  of  her  footsteps.  His  side-long,  guilty  look 
struck  her  as  singular,  an  impression  that  deepened  as 
she  observed  that  he  fell  to  telling  his  beads  with  an 
obviously  feigned  abstraction.  Zetitzka  wavered.  But  her 
instinctive  dread  of  him  as  an  inmate  of  Barlaam  was  for- 
gotten at  the  sight  of  his  grief. 

"  Are  you  unhappy?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  said  ungraciously. 

With  indifference — for  suffering  had  rendered  her  cal- 
lous to  rebuffs — Zetitzka  turned  away.  Slowly  she  walked 
to  the  end  of  the  cloisters.  She  stood  there,  showing  the 
old  monk  her  straight  back,  the  length  of  her  olive-tinted 
neck,  and  the  clustering  blackness  of  her  hair. 

"  Come  back!  "  snuffled  a  tearful  voice  behind  her. 

She  was  unconscious  of  inspection  as  she  again  ap- 
proached. A  moment  she  stood  before  him  in  silence. 
Brother  Gerasimos  appeared  to  be  weighing  something  in 
his  mind,  for,  still  keeping  his  eyes  on  her,  he  bit  absent- 
mindedly  at  his  thumb-nail. 

"  If  I  tell  you  " — he  said  slowly — u  you  will  not  speak 
of  it  to  the  brethren — and  by  no  means  to  Brother  Nico- 
demus?  " 

Her  promise  visibly  relieved  him,  yet  still  he  seemed 
unable  to  make  up  his  mind.  At  length,  with  an  in- 
describable air  of  secrecy,  he  produced  a  fragment  of  a 
newspaper  from  beneath  his  cassock,  tried  in  vain  to  read 
it,  then  wiped  his  red-rimmed  eyes  with  the  back  of  a  grimy 
hand.  So  forlorn  and  helpless  was  he  that,  greatly  to  her 
surprise,  Zetitzka  was  moved  to  compassion. 

"  Is  it  there?  "  she  questioned  kindly. 

The  old  man  blinked  up  into  the  brooding,  young  face, 
which  nevertheless  bent  above  him  with  a  light  of  pity  in 
the  eyes. 

"  Yea,  verily,"  he  snuffled  weakly:  "  but — but  the  print 
is  bad." 

Falling  in  with  his  humour,  she  took  the  paper  from 
him  and  glanced  at  the  part  indicated  by  his  forefinger. 
The  fragment  was  crushed  and  stained  almost  to  illegi- 
bility. It  exhaled  also  a  musty  smell  of  groceries. 

"  Among  the  deaths?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Where,  then?  " 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  85 

"  Among — among  the  marriages." 

Little  by  little  she  learned  that  his  only  niece  had 
married,  and  that  he  had  not  been  told  of  the  event. 

"  After  all,"  hazarded  Zetitzka,  gently,  lured  into  for- 
getfulness  of  self  by  the  sincerity  of  the  old  man's  grief, 
"  an  invitation " 

"It  is  not  that,"  he  interrupted,  gesticulating  eagerly, 
almost  angrily.  "  It  is  that  I  am  forgotten — as  if  I  were 
already  dead.  That  is  what  hurts." 

The  silence  that  followed  was  broken  by  the  sound  of 
distant  singing.  They  both  listened,  gazing  into  the  empty 
sunlit  court. 

"  Would  you  have  gone  to  this  wedding?  "  inquired 
Zetitzka,  looking  at  his  bowed  figure  with  wonder.  He 
gazed  downwards  at  his  naked  toes,  twitching  in  his 
wooden  sandals. 

"  No,"  he  muttered;  then,  in  shrill  and  querulous  in- 
dignation, "  Kyrie  Eleison!  That  makes  no  difference — 
none!  " 

"  Perhaps  " — Zetitzka  hesitated — "  perhaps  the  letter 
was  lost. ' ' 

His  mouth  opened.    His  eyes  told  of  swift  thought. 

"  Could  that  happen?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  Then — then  " — he  stammered  in  his  eagerness — "  you 
think  she  has  not  really  forgotten  me  ?  " 

Her  answer  worked  an  unexpected  transformation. 
Smiles  appeared  at  once.  He  was  so  much  of  an  old  child, 
both  in  his  sorrow  and  in  his  joy,  that  the  mothering  in- 
stinct which  lurks  in  every  woman's  heart  came  to  the 
fore. 

"  See!  " — Zetitzka  pointed — "  there  is  a  button  off  your 
cassock." 

Brother  Gerasimos  fumbled  at  the  place  with  helpless 
fingers,  but  his  expression  showed  a  shameless  indiffer- 
ence to  buttons. 

"  And  see,  there  is  a  stain." 

"  You  waste  your  time,"  he  remonstrated  with  bland 
philosophy.  "  Scratching  availeth  not,  neither  on  the 
raiment  nor  on  the  body." 

It  was  perhaps  characteristic  of  his  great  age  that  he 
observed  neither  her  preoccupation  nor  her  sadness.  The 


86  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

exuberance  and  restlessness  of  youth  would  have  been  un- 
welcome to  him,  so  effectually  had  the  years  stranded  him 
on  the  sluggish  side  of  life.  But  this  lay  brother,  so  gentle 
and  subdued,  so  appreciative  a  listener,  and  so  com- 
mendably  sparing  of  speech,  was  indeed  a  God-send. 
Under  her  influence  Gerasimos  warmed  into  unusual  friend- 
liness. He  surprised  himself.  He  beamed;  he  offered  her 
snuff;  he  even  cracked  one  or  two  little  unfamiliar  jests — 
jests,  be  it  understood,  as  old  as  Barlaam,  and  almost  as 
severely  monastic,  but  which  to  his  simple  soul  were  the 
very  acme  of  humour,  for  as  they  bubbled  from  his  lips 
he  cackled  and  grew  glad. 

When  they  parted  he  patted  her  arm.  There  was  gen- 
uine, though  somewhat  rusty  affection  in  the  act. 

"  We  must  talk  often,"  he  announced  with  relish.  "  I 
like  boys.  The  others" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders — 

"  they — they "  He  hesitated,  cast  a  comical  glance 

at  her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  bleared  eyes,  then  laughed. 
His  old  man's  chuckle  struck  a  note  of  alliance  so  confi- 
dent as  to  be  irresistible.  Nodding  his  head,  he  took  a 
pinch  of  snuff  with  wheezy  satisfaction;  then,  confiden- 
tially: "  After  all,  Angelos,  we  must  be  charitable — not 
judge.  You  take  snuff?  No?  Ah,  to  be  sure,  when  I 

was  your  age — not  yesterday;  but,  as  I  was  saying 

What  was  I  saying?  " 

She  guided  him  back. 

"  Was  I?  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,  though  there 
were  other  things,  too,  in  my  mind — multitudes  of  them. 
By  Saint  Pondromos,  I  know  not  whether  it  be  the  snuff 
or  the  talk,  but  I  feel  better  already!  I  love  talking.  I 
tell  you,  I  could  talk  about  nothing  for  a  week.  Poly- 
calal  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

ZETITZKA  was  in  her  cell.  She  had  returned  to  it 
quickly  after  the  celebration  of  Vespers  and  the  ninth 
Hour,  thankful  to  regain  its  privacy.  The  afternoon,  like 
all  these  long  interminable  summer  afternoons,  had  proved 
intensely  hot,  and  more  than  ever  had  the  stifling  and  in- 
cense-laden atmosphere  of  the  Catholicon  oppressed  her. 
A  faint  buzz  of  voices  came  from  the  court,  stirring  the 
heated  air  languidly,  as  warm  water  might  be  paddled  by  a 
listless  hand. 

Her  head  ached,  a  protest  from  a  nature  born  and  bred 
among  hills  and  free  uncontaminated  winds  against  late 
hours  and  absence  of  ventilation.  But  Zetitzka  was  un- 
conscious of  physical  pain.  Her  protracted  mental  anxiety 
engrossed  her  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  sensation. 
Moving  softly,  she  stole  to  and  fro  in  the  little  bare  room, 
setting  things  in  order  and  rearranging  the  rug  upon  the 
divan.  But  her  actions  were  involuntary,  for  her  thoughts, 
as  ever,  were  occupied  in  seeking  some  solution  to  the  old  in- 
solvable  problem.  She  was  so  weary  of  it  all.  How  would 
it  end  ?  This  strange  unnatural  life  seemed  to  have  claimed 
her  body  and  soul.  It  was  in  reality  less  than  a  week  since 
she  had  come,  but  it  already  seemed  years.  Her  past,  her 
mother,  her  child,  all  appeared  worlds  away,  lost  in  some 
abyss  of  memory.  Nothing  was  real  but  this  fearsome 
monastery,  these  old  monks,  these  long,  unfamiliar  services, 
and  the  haunting  necessity  for  doing  something  soon. 

She  stood  looking  upwards  at  the  window.  Its  tiny 
panes,  obscured  by  dirt  and  cobwebs,  dimly  revealed  the 
unclouded  blue  that  mocked  her  so  far  beyond.  She  had 
the  wish  to  open  it,  but  it  was  far  above  her  reach;  and, 
moreover,  it  did  not  look  as  if  it  had  ever  been  opened  since 
first  the  monastery  was  built.  The  wan  light  rested  softly 
upon  her  face,  her  melancholy  dreaming  eyes,  and  her 
shapely  and  upright  figure. 

Rousing  herself,  she  crossed  the  cell  and  poured  a  little 

87 


88  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

water  into  a  basin.  So  engrossed  was  she  in  thought  that 
the  sound  of  the  door  opening  caused  her  to  start  violently. 
It  was  not  Stephanos,  as  she,  brooding  upon  the  monk,  had 
for  the  moment  feared,  but  Sotiri ;  a  sight  sufficiently  un- 
welcome, however,  for  he  alone  of  all  the  monastic  inmates 
was  hostile  to  her,  bearing  her  a  grudge,  partly  because  she 
had  been  allotted  his  work,  but  more  especially  because  she 
had  been  given  a  cell  of  her  own  near  the  brethren. 

In  tones  that  betrayed  resentment,  he  upbraided  her 
coarsely,  taunting  her  with  being  the  Abbot's  favourite. 
Then,  his  mood  altering,  he  abruptly  commanded  her  to 
follow  him  to  the  Catholicon.  It  appeared  that  some  trivial 
portion  of  her  daily  task  had  for  the  first  time  been  left  un- 
done. 

But  Zetitzka  retorted  with  spirit,  accusing  him  of  break- 
ing the  rule  that  forbade  any  inmate  to  enter  another's  cell 
without  the  consent  of  the  Hegoumenos.  Alarm  lent  indig- 
nation to  her  voice. 

Sotiri  scowled  upon  her.  He  looked  a  forbidding  object 
as  he  stood  blocking  the  narrow  doorway — unkempt,  dirty, 
stupid,  and  intensely  bigoted,  a  specimen  of  all  the  worst 
qualities  bred  by  the  Greek  monastical  system.  Zetitzka 
gazed  at  him  with  open  dislike. 

' '  Will  you  obey  ?  "  he  said  menacingly. 

"  No, "she  flashed. 

At  the  reply  a  malevolent  grin  overspread  his  face. 

"  Then  I  will  chastise  you — now." 

Zetitzka  looked  around  anxiously,  but  her  eyes  rested 
on  nothing  that  could  assist  her.  All  at  once  her  face 
brightened.  Through  the  open  door,  over  Sotiri 's  shoul- 
der, she  could  see  the  old  cloisters  shimmering  in  heat,  and 
within  their  shadow  a  black  figure — Petros.  But,  on  the 
point  of  calling  him,  she  hesitated.  "Would  it  be  wise  ?  She 
recalled  her  doubts,  her  resolutions.  This  young  monk  had 
already  obtained  too  much  influence  over  her  actions.  She 
must  at  all  costs  keep  her  independence.  Were  she  to  ap- 
peal to  him  it  would  be  a  tacit  acknowledgment  of  his  right 
to  protect  her.  Her  destiny  must  be  shaped  by  none  save 
herself. 

As  these  thoughts  flashed  across  her  in  swift  intuitive 
reasoning,  she  recognised  their  wisdom.  Her  courage 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  89 

came  to  her  aid.  In  silence,  with  head  erect,  she  faced 
her  foe. 

The  lay  brother  cast  a  furtive  glance  along  the  deserted 
gallery,  then,  apparently  unaware  of  the  dark  figure  in  the 
cloisters,  he  stepped  across  the  threshold. 

"  Stand  back!  "  cried  Zetitzka  sharply. 

Her  voice,  unconsciously  raised,  reached  Petros.  As 
she  saw  him  leap  to  his  feet,  a  feeling  of  glad  relief  came 
to  her.  Before  Sotiri  could  do  more  than  grasp  her  arm, 
he  was  confounded  by  the  sound  of  his  name. 

"  Sotiri,"  panted  the  young  monk,  "  how  dare  you! 
Release  him  at  once !  ' ' 

Abashed,  Sotiri  obeyed. 

"  He  is  idle  and  disobedient,"  he  muttered,  eyeing 
Zetitzka  with  ill-concealed  rancour.  "  He  feigned  to  know 
Brother  Stephanos.  It  was  a  lie.  He  merits  chastise- 
ment. ' ' 

Petros  listened  to  him  with  ill-concealed  impatience. 

"  And  is  that  reason  sufficient  for  breaking  the  rules — 
ay,  and  employing  unseemly  violence  ?  Come  hither !  ' ' 

Reluctantly  Sotiri  neared  him. 

"  Begone!  "  The  lad  pointed  sternly  along  the  gallery. 
"  Verily  the  Abbot  shall  know  of  this.  And  look  you, 
Sotiri  " — he  stopped  him  with  a  gesture — "  beware  how 
you  offend  again,  for  if  so  be  that  you  touch  this  lad  other- 
wise than  kindly,  by  Saint  Barlaam,  I  will  e'en  chastise 
you  myself !  ' ' 

Into  the  ringing  tones,  sonorous  with  newly  acquired 
manhood,  had  come  a  sudden  heat  of  indignation.  The 
incident  had  called  forth  qualities  other  than  Zetitzka  had 
expected.  She  could  not  but  admire  him;  for  the  humor- 
ous incongruity  of  a  monk  reproving  violence  and  threaten- 
ing it  almost  in  the  same  breath  eluded  her,  as  it  did 
Petros  himself.  When  the  lay  brother  had  shambled  out 
of  sight,  the  boy  turned  to  her,  his  expression  changing 
to  one  of  much  goodwill. 

"  Now,  tell  me,  Angelos,  wherefore  did  he  molest  you?  " 

But  freed  from  danger,  Zetitzka  had  no  wish  to  accuse; 
and,  moreover,  she  was  restrained  by  an  instinctive  re- 
luctance to  be  beholden  to  him.  Something  whispered 
to  her  that,  of  little  importance  though  this  episode 


90  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

seemed,  it  had  yet  brought  to  pass  that  against  which 
she  had  fought.  A  feeling  of  helplessness,  almost  of  im- 
potence, oppressed  her.  Within  her  freedom-loving  soul 
something  rebelled. 

"  What  were  you  doing?  "  he  questioned  with  boyish 
curiosity,  peering  into  her  cell. 

"  I  was  about  to  wash,"  she  said  reluctantly. 

His  irrepressible  chuckle  caused  her  to  redden ;  but,  un- 
aware of  her  embarrassment,  he  broke  out : 

"  Now,  verily  do  I  perceive  the  reason  of  his  wrath. 
Bethink  you,  Angelos,  every  drop  of  water  has  to  be 
pumped  up  here  from  the  gorge — ay,  by  Sotiri  himself, 
with  much  heat  and  labour,  and  in  the  summer  season  it 
all  but  dries  up.  In  sooth  he  was  vexed."  He  chuckled 
again ;  then,  sobering,  added  quickly :  ' '  But  the  fellow 
has  no  right  to  enter  your  cell;  even  I,  a  brother,  may 
by  no  means  do  that.  And  what  said  he  about  Brother 
Stephanos?  Was  he  then  formerly  known  unto  you?  " 

Still  embarrassed,  Zetitzka  looked  up  at  him  furtively. 
She  had  hoped  that  he  had  forgotten  the  accusation.  How 
far  could  she  trust  him?  Had  he  asked  the  question  be- 
fore, she  would  not  have  answered  him ;  but  now  his  cham- 
pionship of  her  seemed  to  have  put  them  on  a  different  foot- 
ing. As  she  felt  this,  she  grew  alarmed.  More  and  more 
was  she  being  irresistibly  drawn  into  closer  connection  with 
this  young  monk. 

*  Tell  me,"  he  prompted  good-naturedly. 

"  Yes.  That  is — that  is,  I  did  know  him  once.  But 
he  has  forgotten  me — at  least,  I  think  he  has,  and  I  don't 
wish  to  remind  him. ' ' 

Petros  nodded.  That  he  would  have  liked  to  have  ques- 
tioned further  was  evident,  but  to  her  relief  he  let  the  mat- 
ter drop. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  time  Zetitzka  came  to  know  all  the  brethren — Nico- 
demus  and  Apostili,  dark,  gloomy  men,  with  fierce  eyes, 
whom  she  instinctively  felt  were  to  be  feared — Philemon, 
a  gentle  kindly  soul,  whose  affections,  in  default  of  human 
outlet,  had  flowed  to  the  green  world  of  plants,  and  grasses 
and  herbs,  and  whose  dearest  treasures  were  a  few  weakly 
bulbs  nursed  with  infinite  solicitude  in  pieces  of  broken 
crockery;  Johannes,  silent,  white-haired,  a  mystic  and  a 
seer;  Elias,  the  Martha  of  the  monastery,  much  taken  up 
with  the  little  things  of  this  life;  and  yet  others,  for  Bar- 
laam  possessed  in  all  twelve  monks,  though  there  were  cells 
for  nearly  double  that  number. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  anxiety  that  weighed  her  down, 
Zetitzka  might  have  taken  pleasure  in  the  conversation  of 
the  more  gentle-mannered  among  them;  but,  as  matters 
were,  she  sought  to  avoid  them  all. 

Service  over,  and  Petros  successfully  eluded,  she  would 
hasten  to  her  cell,  or  seek  some  spot  that  seemed  to  promise 
seclusion.  The  subterranean  passages  lent  themselves  best 
to  concealment.  Carved  out  of  the  solid  rock  upon  which 
the  monastery  was  built,  they  led  through  gloom,  save 
where,  at  rare  intervals,  an  opening  gave  sight  of  the  sun- 
lit world  below.  More  than  any  other  part  of  the  monastery 
did  these  passages  speak  of  desolation.  They  were  elo- 
quent with  voiceless  memories,  for  as  Zetitzka  groped  her 
way  along  them,  she  came  upon  little  cells  hollowed  here 
and  there,  that  even  to  her  preoccupied  mind  told  of 
hermit  occupants  long  since  crumbled  into  dust. 

Here  it  was  that  one  afternoon  she  had  sought  shelter. 
Seated  on  the  ground  where  sunlight  flooded  the  passage, 
her  arms  encircling  her  knees,  she  remained  for  long  mo- 
tionless. The  air,  warm  as  a  caress,  quivered  up  to  her 
from  the  depths.  Around  her  the  rocks  burned  the  touch, 
but,  immersed  in  dreams,  she  suffered  no  inconvenience 
from  the  heat.  Peace  and  profound  silence  inundated  the 

91 


92  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

monastery.  To  one  unaccustomed  to  the  voicelessness  of 
the  heights,  this  absolute  cessation  from  all  sound  came  as 
a  sort  of  shock — a  hungering  of  the  ears  that  would  not  be 
satisfied.  Thrust  upwards  into  the  light,  drugged  by  day- 
long draughts  of  fire,  the  little  monastery  dozed  and 
dreamed  under  the  unchanging  blue  of  the  sky.  Seen,  as 
it  were  a  picture  through  a  dark  framework  of  rock,  the 
distance  trembled  faintly. 

Sitting  thus,  Zetitzka  forgot  for  awhile  the  weight  that 
oppressed  her.  Outwards,  into  the  kindly  sunlight,  her 
thoughts  escaped  as  birds  through  the  door  of  a  cage.  Her 
heart  fled  to  the  hills — the  high  hills !  She  could  see  them 
far  off,  veiled  in  lights  that  quivered,  and  in  shadows  that 
veered.  They  spoke  to  her  of  home.  "With  semi-closed 
eyes  she  watched  a  cloud  trail  its  draperies  over  the  naked 
shoulders  of  the  mountains — then  a  point  of  incompre- 
hensible brightness  that  held  attention  like  a  gleaming  eye 
— and,  finally,  some  huge  upland  form,  that,  heaving  itself 
above  its  neighbours,  stared  backward  into  Albania. 

Albania !  Her  native  land !  Never  before  had  it  been  so 
dear!  Never  before  had  all  that  it  meant  to  her  come  so 
close  to  her  heart!  Her  desires  outstripping  sight,  she 
sought  to  pierce  beyond  the  blue  barriers  to  the  little  vil- 
lage that  nestled  in  some  remoter  hollow  of  the  hills.  Long- 
ings and  apprehensions  connected  with  her  child  beset 
her;  and,  as  she  gazed,  her  heart  dumbly  yearning  within 
her  eyes,  the  far  hills  swam  in  tears. 

Still  she  sat  motionless,  with  locked  fingers.  Many 
thoughts  came  to  her,  memories  of  her  childhood,  all  seem- 
ing inconceivably  happy  and  remote.  With  a  wistful  sad- 
ness she  recalled  her  girlish  dreams  of  love  and  of  a  pos- 
sible lover,  vague,  timid,  beautiful.  How  they  had  misled 
her!  A  shrinking  delicacy  of  mind  had  robbed  her  of 
the  knowledge  that  might  have  aided.  Her  ignorance  had 
been  her  undoing.  Following  the  instincts  of  her  heart, 
she  had  not  wished  to  pry  into  life.  Love  was  a  holy 
mystery.  It  would  come  in  its  own  good  time. 

Zetitzka  looked  back  upon  the  Zetitzka  of  the  past  as 
upon  a  person  with  whom  she  had  nothing  in  common, 
whose  motives  appeared  now  almost  incomprehensible,  yet 
for  whose  weakness  she  was  doomed  to  pay  the  utmost 
penalty. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  93 

What  had  induced  her  to  imagine  herself  in  love  with 
Stephanos?  She  asked  herself  this  in  amazement,  in  pro- 
found self -contempt. 

As  she  sat  semi-dreaming,  Zetitzka  brooded  over  it  all 
darkly,  with  pained  perplexity.  She  could  not  understand. 
Life  was  then  cruel,  and  love  a  horror,  an  insult?  It  all 
hurt.  Were  all  men  like  this?  Was  there  no  God  to 
avenge?  Did  women  always  suffer?  Once  she  had  been 
so  happy,  so  unsuspecting!  Why  had  this  man  not  left 
her  alone?  Why?  Why? 

Suddenly  a  faint  sound  came  reverberating  along  the 
passage.  Always  more  or  less  consciously  on  the  alert, 
Zetitzka  started  to  her  feet,  and,  as  the  sounds  continued 
to  draw  near,  glided  swiftly  into  one  of  the  rude  caves 
hollowed  out  of  the  inner  wall  of  the  passage.  The  move- 
ment was  instinctive,  promoted  more  by  a  state  of  mind 
that  shunned  companionship,  than  by  fear  of  whoever  it 
might  be.  From  her  place  of  concealment,  she  commanded 
the  tunnel,  and,  owing  to  the  darkness,  could  see  without 
being  seen. 

Barely  had  she  taken  cover  than  a  monk  came  into  sight, 
walking  slowly  with  bowed  head.  As  he  paused  in  the 
shaft  of  light,  she  recognised  Stephanos.  His  back  was 
towards  her,  but  in  the  intense  stillness  she  heard  the  thick 
click  of  his  wooden  rosary  beads. 

As  ever,  when  forced  to  encounter  this  man,  she  was 
seized  with  indignation  and  loathing.  But  after  her  first 
inward  gasp,  she  stood  stock-still,  watching  him  with  wide 
fascinated  eyes. 

He  remained  almost  without  movement,  his  black  figure 
in  its  sombre  draperies  sharply  delineated  against  the  strong 
light  that  streamed  through  the  rock-hewn  doorway.  In 
the  heart  of  the  immense  cliff,  subterranean  though  lifted 
high  above  the  earth,  the  silence  was  of  the  grave. 

The  moments  seemed  years  to  Zetitzka.  An  insufferable 
sense  of  oppression  overpowered  her.  She  stood  trans- 
fixed, tormented  by  emotions  almost  beyond  control.  But 
as  he  continued  to  stand  there,  and  as  her  agitation  in- 
creased, a  swift  and  terrible  suggestion  came  to  her.  It 
was  less  a  thought  than  one  of  those  sudden  mysterious 
promptings  of  subconscious  mind  occupying  itself  with  the 


94  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

solution  of  an  old  dilemma.    It  whispered:    "  If  he  goes 
to  the  verge,  one  push  will  do  it." 

Zetitzka's  heart  stood  still,  then  began  to  hammer  in 
her  breast.  Her  blood,  suspended  for  a  breathless  second, 
rushed  upwards — she  felt  it  inundating  her  brain,  singing 
loudly  in  her  ears.  Would  he  go?  Dear  Saints!  For 
patience !  for  strength !  Cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  her  as 
she  lurked  in  the  blackness;  her  eyes,  her  attention,  her 
every  sentient  possibility — all  riveted  themselves  upon  the 
man  with  a  concentration  so  painful  in  its  intensity  that 
her  very  existence  seemed  to  hang  upon  his  moving  that 
one  little  yard.  And  all  the  while  her  mind  was  schem- 
ing, planning — she  would  dart  out,  avoiding  that  stone, 
that  hole,  four  swift  steps  would  suffice,  then — O  God !  One 
push! 

He  moved.  Zetitzka's  fingers  twisted  themselves  in  the 
folds  of  her  tunic. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  he  intended  to  follow  the 
passage ;  then,  as  though  acting  under  some  sudden  impulse, 
he  slowly  approached  the  brink. 

She  could  now  see  him  standing  on  the  unprotected 
verge,  black  against  the  dazzle  beyond.  A  fierce  exulta- 
tion leapt  to  her  heart.  At  last  he  was  in  her  power.  Now 
was  the  time — now ! 

Not  daring  to  breathe,  Zetitzka  crept  forward.  Stealthily 
she  neared  him.  He  did  not  move.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  his  back.  Her  wild  and  lawless  blood  inflamed  her  to 
the  deed.  This  was  the  opportunity  for  which  she  had 
watched,  and  waited,  and  schemed.  One  push,  but  one, 
and  she  would  rid  herself  of  this  man  for  ever.  The 
silence  grew  sinister;  all  nature  seemed  to  hold  its  breath. 

Within  a  yard  of  her  victim  she  stopped,  and,  concen- 
trating all  her  courage,  all  her  resolution,  nerved  herself 
for  the  fatal  thrust. 

God!  What  was  that?  An  inhuman  voice  rang  in  the 
darkness — staying  her  hand,  freezing  her  blood — the  iron 
voice  of  the  semantron,  screaming  its  metallic  warning  to 
the  man  upon  the  precipice  brink. 

Stephanos,  turning  abruptly,  met  her  face  to  face. 
'  What  do  you  want?  "  he  ejaculated  in  surprise. 

His  deep  and  painfully  familiar  voice  struck  a  chill  to 
her  heart.  It  forced  her  to  think  of  him  as  an  imminent 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  95 

danger,  yet  as  one  who  had  mysteriously  receded  beyond 
reach  of  her  vengeance.  An  immense  discouragement  fell 
upon  her. 

Instinctively  she  had  backed  into  the  shadow,  influenced 
not  by  fear,  but  by  aversion.  Still  the  monk  held  her  with 
gloomy  questioning  eyes. 

"  "Why  don't  you  answer?  "  he  demanded  sternly;  then, 
as  she  remained  tongue-tied,  "  You  are  the  new  lay 
brother?  " 

Her  reluctant  affirmative  barely  reached  him;  indeed, 
it  is  doubtful  if  he  heard,  for,  averting  his  head,  he  mut- 
tered incoherently  into  his  beard. 

Unconsciously  relieved  by  his  strange  preoccupation, 
Zetitzka  looked  at  him  steadily  with  a  concentrated  hos- 
tility, noting  little  things  about  him,  each  with  a  shock  of 
uneasy  aversion,  so  clearly  and  so  poignantly  did  each 
recall  the  past.  Her  eyes  wandered  from  his  heavy  over- 
hanging eyebrows  to  a  curious  red  birth-mark  upon  his  left 
temple.  She  remembered  the  latter  well,  and  how  it  be- 
came a  vivid  crimson  when  he  grew  excited.  He  had  aged 
much.  His  hair,  beneath  his  tall  black  hat,  attracted  her 
notice.  She  had  thought  of  it  as  short  and  black,  and  be- 
hold, it  was  long  and  grey !  New  and  deep  lines  had  graven 
themselves  across  his  face.  His  cassock  hung  loosely  upon 
his  gaunt  frame.  Only  in  his  hollow  eyes,  now  fixed  ap- 
parently upon  space,  there  lurked  the  fires  of  a  feverish 
vitality. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  spoken  together  since 
that  ill-omened  day  of  parting,  and  the  tumultuous  and 
torturing  thoughts  to  which  it  gave  rise  flooded  her  heart 
and  flamed  in  her  eyes  like  signals  of  distress.  To  be  so 
near  him — to  hear  his  voice — to  recollect  all — to  feel  again 
the  anguish  of  the  old  incurable  wound — and  to  know  that 
he  had  escaped  her— each  and  every  one  of  these  seemed 
to  be  a  hand  thrusting  her  relentlessly  into  some  depth  of 
unplumbed  despair. 

"  Why  did  you  seek  me?  " 

As  he  asked  the  question  he  raised  his  head.  Zetitzka 
found,  to  her  surprise  and  relief,  that  she  could  listen 
to  him  with  a  certain  detachment — that  his  old  domination 
over  her  was  gone.  But,  as  she  continued  to  look  at  him, 
it  flashed  to  her  mind  that  he  was  the  father  of  her 


96  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

child.  This  enforced  relationship,  this  inexorable  con- 
nection between  the  being  she  loved  and  the  being  she 
hated  filled  her  with  an  almost  incredulous  consternation. 
As  she  shrank  from  it  a  solitary  consolation  leapt  to  her 
heart.  She  recalled  their  parting.  He  did  not  then  know 
the  tie  that  was  destined  to  bind  them  together.  He  was 
doubtless  still  in  ignorance.  That  secret,  at  all  events,  was 
her  own.  She  hugged  the  assurance  to  her  breast.  If  it 
depended  upon  her,  he  should  never  know — never,  never. 

' '  Why  did  you  seek  me  ?  "  he  questioned  again. 

The  words  were  inoffensive,  but  the  hard  frown  of  his 
eyes  imparted  to  them  a  weight  of  intolerable  suspicion. 
That  she  should  be  thus  insolently  interrogated,  and  by 
him,  left  her  speechless. 

"  Answer  at  once,"  he  commanded,  in  sudden  anger. 

An  instinct  told  Zetitzka  that  were  she  to  speak,  as 
speak  she  must,  he  would  instantly  recognise  her.  All 
fear  of  the  inevitable  exposure,  however,  vanished,  swept 
out  of  sight  by  the  violence  of  her  passions.  But  before 
she  could  give  vent  to  the  volume  of  living  anger  that 
blazed  in  her  heart,  there  came  a  swift  change.  In- 
credible though  it  may  seem,  he  had  forgotten  her!  She 
noticed  with  dumb  amazement  that  his  attention  had 
shifted  to  the  wall  immediately  behind  her  back.  Into  his 
weary  hollow  eyes  had  come  the  expression  that  had  so 
often  filled  her  with  uneasiness — the  hunted  look  of 
one  who  flees  in  vain  from  the  terrors  of  an  offended 
conscience. 

Half  turning,  Zetitzka  followed  with  awe  his  fascinated 
gaze.  Upon  the  dark  face  of  the  rock  some  long-forgotten 
hermit  had  scrawled  a  cross,  a  rude  thing,  but  two  streaks 
of  white  paint  still  shining  dimly  in  the  obscurity. 

Wholly  oblivious  of  her,  in  silence,  Stephanos  raised 
trembling  fingers  to  his  breast  and  forehead.  Then,  as  she 
stood  in  the  deep  shadow,  mutely  observant,  he  moved 
slowly  away  into  the  inner  darkness  of  the  passage,  his 
head  sunk  to  his  chest,  lost  to  everything  save  his  own 
tormented  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  the  custom  of  Dimitri  the  muleteer  to  visit  the 
Meteora  monasteries  just  so  often  as  business  led  his  steps 
in  their  direction.  Sometimes  he  escorted  travellers 
thither — strangers  of  diverse  nationalities  who  paid  him  in 
good  Greek  notes;  at  others,  he  conveyed  merchandise  to 
the  monks,  oil  in  barrels,  bags  of  flour  from  the  little  mill 
on  the  Peneios,  or  vegetables  from  the  village  gardens. 
Once  in  a  great  while  he  acquired  distinction  by  officiating 
as  postman. 

One  bright  morning  Dimitri  set  out  for  Hagios  Barlaam. 
His  gay  swagger  was  even  more  pronounced  than  usual, 
for,  in  addition  to  a  load  strapped  upon  the  back  of  Nikola, 
his  mule,  was  he  not  the  bearer  of  a  parcel  addressed  to 
the  Hegoumenos  ? 

It  had  not  been  without  difficulty  that  he  had  rescued 
the  latter  from  the  grip  of  the  postal  authorities  at  Kala- 
baka.  The  curiosity  of  the  fat  postmaster  had  come 
perilously  near  to  breaking  the  string,  the  sealing-wax,  and 
the  eighth  commandment!  Not  he  alone,  but  likewise  the 
chemist,  the  innkeeper,  and  even  the  one  ornamental 
gendarme,  had  in  turns  endeavoured  to  deduct  the  con- 
tents from  the  feel  of  the  brown  paper — but  Dimitri  had 
carried  it  off  with  a  laugh. 

"  Find  out  what  is  in  it,  and  tell  us  when  you  return," 
cried  the  chemist  after  him. 

"  Do  not  forget  the  two  pesetas  tax,"  shouted  the  post- 
master. 

The  little  group  watched  him  indolently  as  he  swung  up 
the  village  street,  his  white  f  ustinella  snapping  in  the  breeze, 
and  Nikola  two  paces  in  front  picking  her  way  daintily 
over  the  stones. 

"  A  popular  fellow,"  mused  the  innkeeper;  "  he  would 
make  a  bar  pay." 

"  M — m,"  doubted  the  postmaster,  a  half-smoked  but 
unlighted  cigarette  between  his  lips.  "  M — m — that  is — 
7  97 


98 

look  you,  if  he  did  not  drink  all  the  profits.    Yes,  a  good 

fellow,  but  to  my  mind  too  leave-alone — too Blessed 

Saint  Nicholas!    You  have  seen — all  of  you.    He  did  not 
even  seem  to  care  what  was  in  that  parcel !  ' ' 

The  gendarme  wagged  his  cocked  hat. 

"You  would  choose  a  bachelor,"  he  said;  then  added 
sententiously,  "  Bachelors  are  too  happy." 

"  True,"  sighed  the  chemist,  thoughtfully  twirling  his 
wedding-ring.  "  But,"  he  added  hopefully,  "  he  is  young. 
He  may  still  marry." 

"  'Twill  not  be  the  fault  of  the  girls  if  he  remain  single," 
said  the  innkeeper;  "  any  one  of  them  would  jump  at 
him." 

"  I — am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  objected  the  gendarme, 
who  was  father  of  two. 

"  Jump,"  repeated  the  innkeeper,  emphasising  his  state- 
ment so  unexpectedly  with  his  pipe-stem  on  the  table  that 
the  gendarme  involuntarily  obeyed.  "  But  he!  'Tis  a 
smile  to  one  and  a  jest  with  another,  and  away  he  goes 
singing  with  his  mule.  Bah!  " — he  snapped  his  fingers — 
"  he  has  never  been  really  in  love  in  his  life.  Now — at 

his  age,  I "    He  broke  off  with  modest  and  far-away 

smiles. 

' '  Muleteers  are  like  that, ' '  assented  the  postmaster.  ' '  I 
have  in  my  time  employed  three.  All  were  unaccountable. 
It  comes  from  being  so  much  with  brute  beasts.  To  see 
him  on  a  rock !  You  would  say :  '  a  mule !  '  Thank 
Heaven !  ' ' — he  gazed  complacently  upon  his  ample  stomach 
— "  I  am  no  mule!  " 

"  Yet  he  is  a  good  son,"  mused  the  chemist.  "  I  have 
known  him  all  his  life;  and  never  once,  since  his  father 
died,  has  he  grudged  his  mother  medicine." 

' '  Maybe  he  wants  to  poison  her !  ' '  tittered  the  gendarme, 
who  was  a  bit  of  a  wag. 

'  Poison     her!  "     The     chemist    snorted     indignantly. 

'  Would  I  sell  him  anything  to  poison  her!     No,  indeed, 

'tis  his  excellent  heart;  he  always  pays  me  ready  money. 

I  wish  "—here  he  transfixed  the  gendarme  with  a  meaning 

eye — "  I  wish  all  sons  followed  his  example." 

But  the  gendarme  was  gazing  abstractedly  at  his  boots. 

Meanwhile  Dimitri  was  climbing  the  rocky  path  that 
led  to  the  monasteries.  The  day  was  sultry.  The  mule- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  99 

teer  was  constrained  to  unbutton  his  shirt  and  push  back 
the  little  round  cap  that  sat  so  jauntily  upon  his  head. 
In  his  picturesque  dress — manly,  athletic,  good-looking — 
he  formed  an  attractive  addition  to  the  landscape.  As  he 
climbed  he  smoked  a  cigarette  and  hummed  a  ditty  be- 
tween closed  lips. 

His  progress  was  not  rapid — Nikola  saw  to  that. 

Already  the  pinnacles  of  Meteora  shimmered  through  a 
haze  of  heat.  The  shadows  of  man  and  mule  shouldered 
before  them,  black  on  the  white  dust  of  the  track. 

"  Ai — i — eah!  "  cried  Dimitri,  wiping  the  sweat  from 
his  face. 

Nikola  had  stopped — her  sides  heaving. 

"  Come,  old  lady,"  remonstrated  her  master.  "  You 
slept  all  day  yesterday.  You  eat  too  much.  You  become 
fat.  Come !  "We  must  be  there  before  eight  o  'clock.  The 
flies  pester  you,  eh?  Well,  then,  what  has  the  good  God 
given  you  a  tail  for?  Another  effort — ah,  gently!  you 
will  loosen  the  straps." 

Neither  master  nor  mule  gave  the  scenery  a  thought. 
Why  should  they?  Had  they  not  known  it  all  their  lives? 
Others — travellers  for  the  most  part — exclaimed  loudly  and 
asked  many  foolish  questions,  with  sudden  halts  trying  alike 
to  Nikola's  mouth  and  Dimitri 's  patience — but  to  them 
it  was  part  of  their  lives.  When  the  great  pinnacles 
flashed  at  dawn,  it  was  time  to  take  the  road;  when  the 
crests  grew  death-like  and  grey,  it  was  time  to  go  home. 
That  was  all.  Yet  each  had  their  preferences.  Nikola 
preferred  a  certain  secluded  part  of  the  ravine  midway 
between  Barlaam  and  Triada.  There  dwarf  oaks  grew,  and 
a  trough  filled  miraculously  with  ever  running  water  was 
to  be  enjoyed.  She  remembered  this  spot  even  before  it 
came  into  sight,  and  invariably  quickened  her  step.  If  she 
could  put  enough  road  between  herself  and  her  master  she 
drank  deep — a  forbidden  pleasure;  if  not,  she  snatched  at 
the  leaves  as  she  walked  and  munched  them  greedily. 

Dimitri,  for  his  part,  preferred  the  monasteries.  The 
monks  amused  him  hugely.  Their  mastica,  too,  was  an 
excellent  drink — trust  them  for  that!  It  was  pleasant  to 
loaf  in  the  sunlight  of  the  courts,  smoke  innumerable  cigar- 
ettes, and  banter  the  brethren;  pleasant,  too,  to  stand  on 
the  precipice  brink  with  the  village  of  Kalabaka  a  sheer 


100  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

thousand  feet  below,  and  admire  the  microscopic  propor- 
tions of  his  own  cottage. 

When — having  anchored  Nikola  to  a  stone  in  the  gorge — 
Dimitri  reached  the  top  of  the  ladders,  he  found  Brothers 
Nicodemus  and  Gerasimos  in  the  tower  of  the  windlass. 
This  was  a  favourite  haunt  of  the  brethren.  One  or  more 
might  often  be  seen  gazing  listlessly  outwards  and  down- 
wards. The  little  shell  of  a  hut  was  as  aerial  an  outlook 
as  the  car  of  a  drifting  balloon.  From  it  the  eyes  ranged 
over  the  chaos  of  cliffs  intersected  by  ravines  to  the  far 
plains  of  Thessaly.  The  brethren  took  a  contemplative 
pleasure  in  gazing  into  the  distance.  It  fed  the  Oriental 
quietism  that  saturated  their  lives.  Under  its  soporific  in- 
fluence they  rarely  spoke.  Occasionally  one  black- 
robed  figure,  leaning  over  the  rail,  motionless,  would  be 
heard  to  mutter — another  would  reply — then  back  would 
they  sink  into  inanition,  and  the  silence  would  close  in  as 
though  it  had  never  been  broken. 

"  Calamera  sas,"  cried  Dimitri  in  cheery  greeting. 

"  Ora  calee,"  responded  Nicodemus  drowsily,  while 
Gerasimos  blinked  at  the  new-comer  like  a  venerable  owl 
disturbed  in  its  slumbers. 

"  I  have  brought  you  some  flour,"  announced  the  mule- 
teer. "  I  put  it  in  the  net.  You  had  better  pull  it  up." 

The  brethren  looked  at  the  windlass,  which,  with  its 
four  great  arms,  occupied  the  centre  of  the  ramshackle  hut. 
Gerasimos  yawned. 

' '  If  we  send  for  Sotiri — or  Brother  Petros, ' '  he  suggested 
faintly. 

Dimitri  laughed.     Echoes  repeated  the  jovial  sound. 

"  Out  of  the  way!  "  he  cried,  flinging  off  his  little  em- 
broidered jacket.  With  creaks  and  groans  the  windlass 
began  to  revolve. 

'  I  admire  strength,"  said  Gerasimos. 

"  Prayer  is  better,"  reproved  Nicodemus.  "  I  was 
strong  once ;  to  look  at  me  you  would  have  said — '  an  ox !  '  " 

Gerasimos  opened  his  mouth  with  amazement. 

:<  I  was  puffed  up  with  pride  of  my  thews  and  sinews," 
continued  Nicodemus  solemnly,  "  recking  not  in  my  folly 
that  all  flesh  is  as  grass,  but  God  opened  my  eyes,  and — here 
I  am." 

"  Past  all  doubt,"  agreed  Gerasimos,  nodding  his  tall 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  101 

hat;  then  to  the  muleteer,  who  was  lustily  working  the 
windlass — ' '  What  sing  you,  Dimitri  ?  ' ' 
'  The  song  of  the  road." 

"  But — methought  I  heard  mention  of  arms!  " 

"  Ay,  two  soft  arms  at  the  journey's  end — so  runs  it." 

"  A  man  of  sin,"  groaned  Nicodemus,  highly  scandal- 
ised. 

"  But,"  objected  Gerasimos,  a  puzzled  look  on  his 
simple  face,  "  what  did  they  at  the  journey's  end?  I  fail 
to  comprehend " 

' '  Better  so, ' '  interrupted  Nicodemus  sourly. 

Upwards — out  of  the  beating  sunshine  into  the  cool 
shadow  of  the  hut — swung  the  bag  of  flour.  The  monks 
seized  it  as  it  oscillated  over  space,  and  with  one  jerk  drew 
it  inwards.  It  fell  on  the  rude  flooring,  and  a  cloud  of 
white  dust  drifted  through  the  doorway.  The  two  old  men 
— their  duty  done — returned  to  the  bench.  Their  sombre 
attire,  bent  shoulders,  and  white  beards  contrasted  forcibly 
with  the  gay  dress  and  gallant  carriage  of  their  com- 
panion. 

"  Anything  new?  "  questioned  Dimitri,  then  with  a  laugh 
— "  I  am  a  fool — nothing  ever  happens  here." 

The  brethren  exchanged  meaning  glances. 

"  "We  have  news,"  announced  Nicodemus,  swelling  with 
importance. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  corroborated  Gerasimos,  rubbing  his 
hands. 

"  I  also  have  news,"  cried  the  muleteer,  not  to  be  out- 
done. 

"  What?  "  questioned  Nicodemus.  "  A  betrothal  in 
Kalabaka,  belike?  Bah!  We  have  heard  of  it  already. 
Nay?  What  then?" 

"  Perhaps  a  death?  "  suggested  Gerasimos  pleasantly. 

"  They  have  broken  their  windlass  rope  at  Meteoron," 
announced  the  muleteer.  "  Ay,  as  they  were  drawing  up 
the  net." 

"  Holy  Virgin!  "  exclaimed  the  monks  with  one  voice. 

"  Anyone  killed?  "  piped  Gerasimos. 

"  Worse,"   sighed  Dimitri,   inwardly   delighted   at  the 
sensation  he  was  creating. 
'  How  worse?  " 

"  A  cask  of  wine  smashed.     I  saw  the  spot  myself — the 


102  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

good  wine  all  red  on  the  rocks.  Had  it  been  a  monk " 

He  snapped  his  fingers  with  gay  unconcern. 

"  Impious  fellow!  "  frowned  Nicodemus.  "  Have  yon 
no  veneration?  " 

"  For  you?  None.  Nay,  scowl  not  at  me — I  have  been 
to  Volo.  I  have  heard 

"  What  have  you  heard?  "  snapped  Nicodemus. 

"  Nothing  that  I  well  recall.  Some  talk  maybe  in  the 
market ;  perhaps  a  lie.  They  say  that  the  monks  here " 

"All  holy  men!  " 

"  Humph!  But  useless;  are  to  be  done  away  with,  and 
that  convicts  are  to  be  put  in  their  place.  By  the  Vir- 
gin!— "  his  eyes  roved  speculatively  over  the  ravines — 
"  They  will  be  clever  devils  if  they  manage  to  escape  from 
Barlaam." 

If  there  be  one  thing  in  the  world  at  which  the  monks 
of  Meteora  writhe,  it  is  this  very  rumour.  In  a  tense, 
indignant  whisper  Brother  Nicodemus  explained  to  Dimitri 
that  as  a  malignant  liar  he  was  damned  past  all  hope  of 
redemption.  Gerasimos,  equally  moved,  strove  to  insert 
saints  edgeways. 

"  Gently,  gently,  brothers,"  interposed  the  muleteer. 
"  Did  I  say  it  of  myself.  I  would  be  sorry — look  you, 
my  business  would  be  gone.  Convicts  are  not  brought 
up  upon  oil,  I  take  it.  Ay,  and  more.  I  would  miss  the 
Abbot — and  you  twain  know  well  if  I  care  for  Brother 
Petros!  " 

"  You  are  no  fit  companion  for  him,"  growled  Nieo- 
demus. 

Dimitri  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

"  I  do  him  no  harm;  nay,  I  do  him  good — a  jest  is 
worth  a  dozen  pistevos.  Have  I  not  known  him  since  a 
child — Peste!  I  remember  well  the  first  time  I  saw  him! 
I  gave  him  a  ride  on  one  of  my  mules;  it  did  one  good  to 
hear  him  laugh.  Poor  little  rat!  " 

"  Keep  your  pity!"  Nicodemus  turned  a  scornful 
shoulder.  "  The  lad  is  happy;  he  has  chosen  the  better 
part.  And  as  for  friends — he  lacks  none — all  love  him 
here." 

"  Ay,  do  they,"  corroborated  Gerasimos  warmly. 

"  And  Brother  Stephanos?  "  grinned  Dimitri.  "  He 
loves  him,  I  warrant !  ' ' 


FOBBIDDEN  GROUND  103 

"  Speak  not  of  him.  You  are  not  worthy  to  clean  his 
sandals.  Brother  Petros  holds  him  in  seemly  veneration, 
as  do  all  in  the  monastery." 

The  muleteer  spat  sceptically.  For  awhile  no  one  spoke. 
Gerasimos,  his  head  tilted  backwards,  drifted  into  the  easy 
slumber  of  old  age,  while  Nicodemus  clicked  his  beads  and 
stared  with  unseeing  eyes  into  the  sunlight.  From  the 
inner  court  came  faint  sounds  of  life — a  far-off  voice  call- 
ing, then  silence,  broken  only  by  the  creaking  of  old  wood- 
work in  the  heat.  Far  below  one  could  see  a  herd  of  goats, 
a  small  and  slowly-moving  object  in  the  glaring  dust  of 
the  track. 

"  Where  is  the  lad?  "  said  Dimitri  abruptly. 

"  Within,"  mumbled  Nicodemus.  "  I  saw  him  but  now 

with "  he  turned  swiftly  to  his  friend — "  Brother — 

Brother  Gerasimos,  I  say!  " 

' '  Hai !  hai !  ' '  cried  Gerasimos,  scrambling  to  his  feet. 
"Is  it  time  for  Matins?  What  is  this?  Dimitri  still 
here!  Blessed  Pondromos!  I  dreamed  I  was  in  the 
Catholicon." 

"  We  have  forgotten  to  tell  him  our  news!  " 

"  So  we  have!     Tell  him,  brother." 

"  We  have  a  new  inmate,"  announced  Nicodemus,  com- 
placently stroking  his  beard. 

"  He  came  three  days  agone,"  piped  Gerasimos,  unable 
to  keep  silence.  "  He  is  young  and  well  favoured — 
younger  even  than  Brother  Petros.  And  it  is  his  pious 
wish  to  join  our  blessed  community.  God  be  praised! 
Poly  cola!  " 

"  Ay,  and  he  and  Brother  Petros  are  much  together. 
You  see,  your  pity  is  wasted;  if  the  lad  were  not  happy 
he  would  not  laugh." 

"  I  will  seek  him,"  cried  Dimitri,  and  he  swung  away 
into  the  shadow. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SEATED  in  a  rocky  niche  that  edged  the  precipice, 
Zetitzka  was  deep  in  thought.  So  near  was  she  to  the 
void  that  from  a  little  distance  she  appeared  to  be  over- 
hanging the  abyss.  Her  entire  background,  viewed  from 
the  monastery,  consisted  of  immense  space,  the  depth  of 
shimmering  valley,  and  the  faint  quivering  substance  of 
far-off  hills.  Her  attitude  told  of  dejection ;  the  drooping 
head,  the  listless  pendent  hands,  the  general  air  of  lassi- 
tude and  abandon  all  testified  to  the  immense  depression 
of  her  spirits. 

Sunlight  enveloped  her.  It  poured  its  liquid  fire  upon 
her  head,  unprotected  save  for  the  small  lay  brother's 
cap,  emphasised  the  blue  lights  in  her  hair,  touched  the 
soft  contour  of  one  olive-tinted  cheek. 

She  had  almost  abandoned  hope.  That  Stephanos  should 
escape  her  twice  was  a  calamity  that  had  upset  all  her 
calculations.  Not  that,  had  other  things  been  equal,  her 
perseverance  would  have  been  thus  easily  vanquished,  but 
her  second  failure  had  implanted  superstitious  fears  within 
a  mind  ever  prone  to  credit  the  supernatural.  It  had 
come  to  her  suddenly  that  there  must  be  forces  fighting 
for  the  monk  against  which,  with  all  her  courage,  she  was 
powerless.  What  these  forces  were,  she  knew  not,  but 
she  surmised  them  to  be  connected  with  the  monastery 
that  had  given  him  shelter,  and  with  the  miraculous  icon 
that  had  watched  over  his  safety  in  the  Catholicon. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  undertaken  the  grim 
task,  doubts  oppressed  her.  The  events  of  the  preceding 
day  had  plunged  her  into  a  black  despondency  from  which 
it  seemed  that  nothing  could  arouse  her.  She  felt  be- 
wildered— helpless.  She  knew  not  where  to  turn.  If  the 
present  were  full  of  danger,  the  future  was  simply  un- 
thinkable. As  long  as  Stephanos  lived  she  dare  not  go 
home.  As  little  dare  she  continue  to  remain  in  this 
monastery. 

104 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  105 

Roused  suddenly  by  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  that  place 
where  all  sound  seemed  a  desecration,  Zetitzka  raised  her 
head. 

Dimitri  had  halted  in  surprise.  The  lad  before  him  was 
undoubtedly  the  new  inmate  of  whom  the  monks  had 
spoken,  but  the  reality  was  so  far  removed  from  his  expec- 
tations that  it  set  him  wondering. 

' '  Umph !  "  he  grunted  to  himself,  as  he  again  moved 
forward,  "  there  is  one  at  all  events  who  has  made  a  mis- 
take." 

It  had  been  in  his  mind  merely  to  inquire  the  where- 
abouts of  Petros,  but  something  unusual  and  interest-com- 
pelling in  the  face  before  him  made  him  forget  the  question. 

He  hailed  her  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"  You  are  new  here,  eh?  "  he  asked  genially,  seating 
himself  by  her  side.  Zetitzka,  but  half-aroused  from 
sombre  thoughts,  murmured  an  apathetic  affirmative. 

"  You  wonder  who  I  am?  "  he  went  on  easily,  with  the 
entire  lack  of  self -consciousness  that  invariably  put  others 
at  their  ease.  "  Well,  that  is  soon  told;  I  am  the  mule- 
teer in  these  parts.  You  will  see  me  often,  for  I  come 
up  to  the  monasteries  nearly  every  day — not  always  to 
Barlaam,  of  course,  though  I  like  this  one  best.  Now  you, 
my  friend,"  he  eyed  her  with  frank  curiosity,  "whence 
come  you?  " 

Zetitzka  moved  uneasily.  In  her  mountain  village  the 
sexes  were  somewhat  rigorously  kept  apart.  To  be  ad- 
dressed as  a  comrade  by  this  very  masculine  individual 
made  her  feel  shy  and  awkward.  If  she  had  acted  upon 
instinct  she  would  have  run  away. 

' '  Well, ' '  he  said  smilingly,  ' '  have  you  forgotten  ?  ' ' 

Reflecting  that  this  man  was  no  monk,  and  probably 
had  little  to  do  with  the  monastery,  she  named  the  village 
in  which  her  parents  lived.  The  muleteer  smacked  his 
leg. 

"  I  know  it,"  he  cried.  "  I  thought  you  must  be  Alba- 
nian by  your  accent.  Yes.  I  have  been  there.  Oh !  many 
years  ago,  and  only  once,  for  it  is  out  of  my  beat.  The 
Khan  overlooks  a  little  torrent  that  makes  a  devil  of  a 
noise  in  spring." 

He  continued  to  talk  pleasantly.  Zetitzka  found  her- 
self listening  to  him  with  a  troubled  interest,  occasionally 


106  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

raising  her  long-fringed  lashes  to  steal  a  look  at  him,  noting 
his  open  countenance,  his  easy  gestures,  his  gay,  careless 
manner.  She  could  not  but  like  him,  and  wondered  what 
he  would  do  if  he  knew  she  were  a  girl,  and  whether,  with 
all  his  kindliness,  he  would  help  her. 

All  at  once  he  broke  off,  yawned,  and  began  to  mop  his 
forehead  on  which  the  damp  curls  were  plastered  stickily. 

"  Tis  too  hot  here,"  he  objected;  "if  we  go  over 
there?  " 

She  followed  him  reluctantly  into  the  shade,  for  within 
her  heart  she  longed  to  be  alone.  With  deft  fingers  her 
companion  rolled  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"  I  know  someone  from  your  village,"  he  said  between 
puffs,  "  Nik  Leka,  the  lame  pedlar." 

Zetitzka  listened  uneasily.  Already  she  repented  of  her 
frankness. 

The  muleteer  chuckled  in  reminiscence. 

"  He  bet  me  a  knife  once  that  I  would  not  jump  across 
the  rocks  above  the  waterfall.  You  know  the  place  I 
mean — a  mile  above  Kastrati?  No?  Well,  never  mind, 
I  have  the  knife  still.  You  know  him?  " 

"Yes." 

' '  A  droll  fellow ;  a  bear,  one  might  say,  but  a  bear  with 
a  kind  heart — when  not  doing  business.  He  travels  farther 
than  I — no  regular  beat.  A  fine  life;  a  man  is  his  own 
master,  no  mules,  only  his  own  legs  to  consider.  Though 
one  of  his  must  take  a  lot  of  consideration,  for  it  is  always 
crying  halt!  "  He  chuckled  again,  then,  looking  thought- 
fully at  her,  added,  "  I  wonder  now  that  you  never  thought 
of  peddling?  " 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  You  are  too  young  to  come  here."  In  his  blue  eyes 
there  was  unaffected  and  somewhat  wondering  interest.  A 
moment  he  paused,  then  asked  abruptly :  ' '  Why  did  you 
come?  " 

Again  she  knew  not  what  to  say.     Dimitri  smiled. 
'  Well — never  mind, ' '  he  said  lightly,  pitching  a  stone 
into  space.     "Perhaps  I  can  tell.     Oh,  no  cause  for  fear. 
You  can  trust  me — though  I  dare  swear  you  have  told 
it  all  ere  this  to  the  monks  in  confession.     No?  " 

Despite  her  efforts  at  self-control  she  could  not  help 
flushing. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  107 

"  I  am  like  that  myself,"  continued  the  muleteer,  with 
fellow  feeling,  "  though  it  never  went  so  far  as  to  cause 
me  to  enter  a  monastery." 

"  But "  she  faltered.     "  I  do  not  understand — 

"Not  understand?  Peste!  Why  play  the  simpleton? 

Look  you "  He  would  have  laid  his  hand  on  her 

shoulder,  but  instinctively  she  avoided  him.  "  Look  you," 
he  continued,  unheeding  her  movement,  "there  are  two 
good  things  that  can  be  made  bad  things — money  and 
women.  Money  has  never  come  my  way — '  one  does  not 
find  pesetas  in  the  hoof  of  a  mule, '  as  the  saying  is,  but  a 
man  does  not  live  to  be  thirty  without  knowing  something 
about  women.  Now  you — from  the  first  moment  I  saw 
you  I  knew  what  was  the  matter — I  said  to  myself  '  Dimitri, 
there  is  a  woman  in  this  case.'  ' 

She  would  have  contradicted  him,  but  self-consciousness 
tied  her  tongue. 

' '  Aha !  "  he  exclaimed  triumphantly,  twirling  his  little 
moustache.  "  I  am  right.  Oh,  how  could  it  be  other- 
wise! For,  between  ourselves,  in  spite  of  these  grave- 
clothes — "  he  plucked  gaily  at  the  hem  of  her  dingy  tunic 
— "  you  are  not  exactly  ill-looking.  Nay,  turn  not  away!  " 
He  surveyed  her  flushing  face  with  a  twinkle.  "  But,  my 
friend,  you  have  made  a  mistake — yes,  the  great  mistake 
of  taking  a  woman  too — too  seriously.  Oh,  think  not  that 
I  wish  to  malign  them!  By  the  Saints,  no!  My  diffi- 
culty is  I  love  them  all.  But  I  do  not  make  your  mistake 
— no;  kiss  and  forget,  that  is  what  I  say,  for  if  a  man 
does  more  he  is  sorry  for  it — afterwards." 

"You  are  wrong,"  she  cried,  roused  at  last  into  con- 
tradiction. 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.    She  continued  vehemently : 

"  You  are  wrong.  It  is  men  who  are  not  worth  it. 
They  do  all  the  harm.  They  do  not  care  how  much  they 
make  women  suffer." 

Dimitri 's  bronzed  face  expressed  bewilderment.  His 
eyes  wandered  in  unfeigned  astonishment  from  the  gestic- 
ulating hands  to  the  flushed  cheeks  that  betrayed  the 
emotions  she  could  not  repress. 

"  So!  "  he  muttered,  "  you  think  that,  do  you?  " 

But  2/etitzka,  her  burst  over,  took  refuge  in  silence. 

They  both  sat  awhile  without  speaking;  Dimitri  think- 


108  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

ing  with  unusual  seriousness,  Zetitzka,  with  averted  head, 
striving  to  master  her  agitation.  Around  them  brooded 
the  great  peace  of  the  monastery — warm,  sunlit,  silent, 
steeping  all  things  in  slumber  like  some  ancient  spell. 

"  My  friend,"  began  the  muleteer,  "  you  have  surprised 
me.  After  all,  'tis  none  of  my  business.  That  reminds 
me — I  have  a  parcel — where  shall  I  find  the  Abbot  ?  ' ' 

She  directed  him  in  a  low  voice,  her  eyes  downcast. 

"  Good."  He  rose  to  his  feet.  "  I  will  seek  him  and 
Brother  Petros  too.  This  place  makes  one  sleepy.  Now — 
you — you  bear  me  no  ill-will,  eh?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  That  is  well.  Shall  we  say  a  glass  of  masticaf  I 
could  drink  up  the  Peneios  to-day — if  it  flowed  mastica! 
You  will  get  it  in  the  refectory.  Ah,  you  have  found  it 
out  already  ?  I  might  have  known  it !  Not  so  fast — a  full 
glass,  do  not  forget." 

He  called  the  last  words  after  her  as  she  crossed  the 
sunlit  space,  then  watched  until  she  entered  the  little  low- 
browed door.  When  she  was  no  longer  to  be  seen  he 
scratched  his  head.  His  face  told  that  he  had  by  no  means 
recovered  from  his  astonishment. 


CHAPTER  XV 

STEPHANOS  was  on  his  knees  engaged  in  flagellation. 
Sien  by  the  imperfect  light  of  a  small  wick  floating  in  oil, 
his  naked  back  was  crossed  and  recrossed  by  dark  lines. 
In  front  of  him,  upon  the  wall  of  his  cell,  hung  a  crucifix, 
a  work  of  early  Byzantine  art. 

So  engrossed  was  the  monk  in  his  occupation  that  for 
Borne  time  he  was  unaware  that  the  Abbot  had  entered  the 
cell  and  was  gazing  down  at  him. 

Shrinking  pity,  tinged  curiously  with  an  awestruck  and 
even  reverential  admiration,  filled  the  spectator's  mind. 
Tales  and  legends  of  holy  men,  hermits,  martyrs,  and  even 
saints,  who  had  thus  mortified  the  body  to  the  everlasting 
glory  of  the  soul  passed  before  him,  with  no  precision  of 
detail,  but  only  as  creating  a  halo  of  veneration  within 
which  he  saw  this  act  of  Stephanos. 

The  Abbot  had  suspected  this.  Once  before  he  had 
heard  the  muffled  sound  of  blows,  and  on  more  than  one 
occasion  had  he  seen  the  monk  wince  when  chafed  by  his 
cassock.  But  the  aged  priest  had  little  of  the  grim 
mediaeval  spirit  that  took  delight  in  self-torture.  His  was 
a  more  enlightened  belief,  a  gentler  and  more  humane  re- 
ligion, strange  considering  his  surroundings.  This  want 
of  appreciation,  however,  he  unhesitatingly  condemned, 
judging  it  to  be  weakness  and  backsliding,  and  succeeded 
so  well  in  creating  an  artificial  mental  atmosphere,  that 
he  venerated  Stephanos  as  one  in  whose  presence  the 
monastery  was  indeed  blest,  a  man  of  God,  an  example  to 
all,  even  a  future  worker  of  miracles,  a  saint. 

Pausing  in  his  self-inflicted  punishment,  Stephanos 
looked  up  at  his  superior.  He  presented  a  miserable  spec- 
tacle; his  eyes  bloodshot;  his  chest,  covered  with  black 
hair,  glistening  with  perspiration;  his  coarse  and  naked 
feet  protruding  from  beneath  the  folds  of  his  cassock. 

"  My  son,"  said  the  Abbot  in  a  voice  that  mingled  un- 
affected humility  with  his  ofiice  and  authority,  "  is  there 
need  for  this?  " 

109 


110  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  Ay,"  groaned  the  monk  wearily,  "  only  thus  can  I 
drive  out  the  devil." 

The  old  man  seated  himself  upon  the  low  divan.  "  Tell 
me,"  he  said. 

For  some  time  he  waited;  but,  as  Stephanos  seemed  un- 
able to  obey,  he  began : — 

"  You,  my  son,  so  worthy " 

"  Worthy!  "  interrupted  the  monk  with  sudden  and  in- 
tense bitterness.  "  If  you  but  knew ! " 

'  Tell  me,"  repeated  the  Abbot. 

Stephanos  pushed  his  long  and  matted  hair  from  before 
his  eyes.  Still  on  his  knees,  he  began  to  crawl  slowly 
and  painfully  to  the  old  man's  side.  There  was  something 
pitiable  and  even  bestial  in  his  appearance.  The  Abbot, 
bending  to  bless  him,  suddenly  drew  back. 

"  Blood!     Holy  Mother!    You  are  all  wet  with  it!  " 

"  "Would  I  could  lash  out  every  drop!  It  might  wash 
away  my  sins." 

* '  Human  blood  will  not  do  that,  my  son. ' ' 

The  head  of  Stephanos  drooped  to  his  chest,  then  jerked 
upwards.  When  he  closed  his  eyes  he  saw  the  flames  that 
never  went  out. 

The  cell  was  very  quiet.  Everything  within  it  looked 
shadowy,  unreal.  The  calm  face  of  the  Christ,  lit  by  the 
tiny  wick,  shone  transfigured. 

Yes  ?  ' '  encouraged  the  Abbot. 
Dreams,"  whispered  the  monk. 
We  all  have  dreams." 

But  mine  are  evil  spirits ;  they — they  tempt  me. ' ' 
But — you  resist?  "     There  was  anxiety  in  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  No.  I  fall — in  thought — not  once,  often.  They  bring 
back  my  sin.  Do  you  understand?  I  do  it  again.  I — I 
wallow  in  it!  " 

His  voice  expressed  remorse  and  self-loathing.  The  old 
priest  looked  at  him  with  infinite  sympathy. 

"  I  know,"  he  murmured,  half  below  his  breath. 

"  You  do  not  know!  "  cried  Stephanos  with  sudden  pas- 
sion. Then,  with  an  apologetic  gesture  as  he  caught  a 
glance  of  mingled  surprise  and  disapproval  on  the  Abbot's 
face : — ' '  Forgive  me,  venerable  father,  but  you — you  have 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  111 

lived  here  always — all  your  life.  You  have  fought  the 
flesh — but  have  you  fought  things — things  you  remember — 

things  you  have  done — that — that "  he  broke  off;  then, 

after  a  pause,  during  which  he  stared  fixedly  on  the  floor, 
he  continued  with  bitterness:  "  I  have  sinned  even  by 
coming  here.  I  thought  to  escape — but  I  see  now  that  one 
cannot  do  that,  not  till  one  rots  in  the  grave." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  and  marvelled. 

"  If  his  soul  have  need  of  this,  how  much  greater  need 
has  mine,"  was  his  thought.  With  veneration,  even  as 
one  seeking  spiritual  good  touches  the  feet  of  a  saint,  he 
laid  a  hand  on  the  monk's  naked  shoulder.  Stephanos 
shrank  back. 

"  Do  not  touch  me!  "  he  said  wildly.  "  If  you  knew 
you  would  spit  at  me.  I  am  a  lie.  I  am  a  reproach  to 
the  monastery.  Nay,  you  don't  know  me — none  of  them 
knows  me;  not  one!  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am — a  monk 
with  the  heart  of  a  profligate.  Well,"  he  gazed  at  the 
Abbot  with  a  sombre  and  defiant  stare,  "  you  despise  me 
now." 

"  Despise  you?  I?  God  forbid!  I  but  respect  you  the 
more. ' ' 

Stephanos  betrayed  the  heat  of  sudden  irritation. 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  he  protested,  gesticulating 
with  his  naked  arms.  "  You  make  of  me  a  whited 
sepulchre.  But  the  fault  is  mine — ay,  and  the  guilt.  I 
can  bear  it  no  longer.  Listen.  I  will  tell  all." 

"Alack!"  thought  the  Abbot,  "he  is  distraught. 
Vigils  and  fasts  have  worn  out  the  feeble  body. ' '  Aloud  he 
said:  "  Come,  my  son,  sit  here." 

By  any  other  of  the  brethren  the  invitation  would  have 
been  esteemed  an  honour,  but  Stephanos  muttered  a  refusal. 
The  Abbot,  however,  reaching  out  a  hand,  raised  the  peni- 
tent and  sate  him  by  his  side  on  the  divan. 

"  Take  time,  Brother  Stephanos,"  he  said  in  a  studiously 
matter-of-fact  voice ;  then,  having  snuffed  and  blowing  the 
brown  grains  from  his  fingers,  "  perhaps,  to-morrow — 

"  No,"  pleaded  the  monk,  with  a  return  of  his  irrational 
excitement,  "  to-morrow  may  be  too  late.  Now." 

There  was  a  silence. 

All  at  once  Stephanos  began  to  speak. 


112  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  I  have  deceived  you.  That  is  part  of  my  sin.  You 
thought  me  holy.  I  allowed  you  to  think  so.  I  am  the 
worst  of  sinners." 

A  gentle  incredulity  shone  in  the  old  priest's  eyes. 

Stephanos  continued :  ' '  You  never  asked  why  I  came 
here." 

"  Did  I  not?  Yet  I  remember  well  we  spake  thereof. 
You  fled  from  the  world." 

"  I  fled  " — he  paused  with  bowed  head,  and  hands 
knotted  together — "  I  fled  from  a  woman." 

He  uttered  the  last  word  with  extraordinary  rancour. 
So  full  of  animosity  was  his  tone,  so  unpleasantly  did  it 
jar  on  the  Abbot's  humour,  that  the  old  man  was  con- 
scious of  a  sudden  warning  of  sympathy.  Accounting  this 
a  weakness,  he  pressed  the  monk's  hands  between  his  own 
with  additional  kindness. 

"  Do  not  tremble,  my  son.  Be  comforted.  Your  con- 
science is  clear.  I  know  all." 

"  You  do  not  know  all.  I  tell  you  I  deceived  you.  I 
kept  it  from  you  even  in  the  confessional. ' ' 

The  Abbot  withdrew  his  hands.  Stephanos  did  not  move. 
The  flickering  candle-light  shone  upon  the  old  man's  face, 
revealing  its  agitation. 

"  This  sin  you  speak  of — yon  did  not  conceal  it  when 
you  took  the  Lesser  Habit?  " 

The  monk  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 

The  Abbot  gazed  with  incredulity  at  the  culprit.  He 
recalled  how  he  had  given  absolution  to  this  man  upon  his 
entry  into  Barlaam.  For  a  moment  he  was  lost  in  be- 
wilderment, for  never  before  had  such  an  offence  come 
under  his  notice.  To  his  simple  and  truthful  mind  it 
appeared  impossible.  Then,  in  a  wave,  came  grief  and  a 
sense  of  bitter  personal  disappointment.  Rising,  he  crossed 
the  cell,  and  fell  on  his  knees  before  the  crucifix.  There 
ensued  a  few  minutes  of  tense  silence,  then  the  Abbot 
pressed  his  lips  to  the  relic,  crossed  himself  devoutly,  re- 
gained his  feet,  and  looked  down  at  Stephanos. 
'  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  all." 

The  monk  quailed  at  his  tone.  But  even  as  his  con- 
science shrank,  there  came  to  him  strength  born  of  his 
wild  and  disordered  imagination.  Raising  his  head,  he 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  113 

stared  his  superior  full  in  the  face.  His  eyes  betrayed  no 
fear,  though  darkened  by  sombre  shadows. 

For  a  full  minute  he  sat  silent,  collecting  his  thoughts. 
Then  in  short  and  broken  sentences,  that  gave  his  listener 
the  impression  of  violent  agitation  imperfectly  restrained, 
he  burst  forth: 

"  I  lived  alone  in  a  hut  on  the  outskirts  of  an  Albanian 
village.  I  was  partly  Greek — I  had  books — I  killed  no 
one — that  was  enough  for  them — they  despised  me.  My 
God!  The  very  children  threw  stones.  May  Satan " 

The  Abbot  silenced  him  with  a  gesture,  and  asked, 
"  Why  did  you  continue  to  live  there?  " 

"  One  place  is  as  another.  I  was  a  trader  once,  and 
have  seen  cities,  but  God  told  me  to  forsake  my  calling  and 
to  worship  Him  apart.  I  was  in  Albania  when  His  Voice 
reached  me,  so  I  stayed." 

He  fingered  the  lash  absently,  muttered  incoherently, 
then  tossed  his  dishevelled  head. 

"  Continue,"  said  the  Abbot. 

With  an  effort  Stephanos  obeyed. 

"  I  tilled  the  ground.  I  had  saved  money,  and  one  re- 
quires little  to  eat." 

"  True,"  assented  the  Abbot. 

"  God  was  with  me,"  continued  the  monk  in  an  awe- 
inspired  voice.  "  We  walked  together,  and  I  was  happy 
until — until  she  came." 

Terribly  agitated,  he  broke  off,  wiped  the  sweat  from 
his  face,  then  continued:  "  I  noticed  her  first  on  the  hill- 
side. Her  walk — her  proud  free  air  fascinated  me.  She 
was  with  another  girl.  I  avoided  them;  but — I  trembled. 
The  next  time  she  was  alone,  She  spoke  to  me — she 
asked  the  time  of  day.  The  words  were  naught;  it  was 
her  look — full  of  pity,  and — and  like  an  angel  from  Heaven. 
It  moved  me  so  that  I  answered  her  gently — I,  who  hated 
her  race.  She  came  to  me  in  dreams,  evil  dreams.  I  was 
wretched.  I  prayed  and  fasted  without  avail.  Struggle  as 
I  might,  I  was  chained  to  her  by  every  thought.  Ay,  asleep 
or  awake  I  heard  her  voice  calling  me,  tempting  me.  I 
hear  it  still." 

There  was  a  profound  silence.  The  Abbot's  grave  and 
troubled  eyes  never  wavered  from  the  penitent. 

a 


114  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  We  met  again,"  continued  the  monk,  "  not  once,  but 
often  and  in  secret — for  I  persuaded  her  to  keep  our  meet- 
ings from  her  people  until — well,  until  they  could  no  longer 
be  concealed.  When  with  her  I  forgot  all,  even  my  soul. 
I  set  myself  to  win  her.  But  when  alone  I  fought,  I 
prayed,  I  cried  aloud  to  God,  and  beat  myself.  But  what 
good!  To  see  her  was  again  to  forget  all — all  but  her. 
And  each  time  I  met  her  I  sank  deeper.  Venerable  father, 
I  tell  you,  it  was  a  devouring  furnace.  I  was  on  fire.  I 
thirsted  for  her  as  for  a  drop  of  water  in  hell.  Her  eyes ! 
her  voice !  My  God !  ' ' 

With  a  gasp  he  again  broke  off.  The  breath  of  uncon- 
trollable passion  filled  the  quiet  cell.  The  monk  sat  with 
his  hands  knotted  together  at  arm's  length.  His  eyes 
haunted  and  unseeing,  stared  fixedly  at  the  floor. 

Abruptly  he  resumed:  "  One  night  a  storm  raged  in 
the  mountains.  She  was  returning  from  a  fair,  and  came 
to  my  house  for  shelter.  'Twas  the  first  time  she  had  been 
there.  I  could  not  bid  her  begone.  We  stood  side  by 
side  listening  to  the  thunder  and  the  rain.  Every  time  it 
lightened  I  saw  her  face.  Once  in  sudden  fright  she 
clutched  my  arm.  The  devil  tempted  me.  I  resisted — 
God!  how  I  resisted!  but— I  fell." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  The  Abbot  sat 
quite  still  and  looked  at  him.  Into  the  old  man's  eyes — 
grave,  yet  innocent  as  a  child's — crept  a  bewildered  ex- 
pression, that  slowly  gave  place  to  comprehension  and 
horror.  Calm  and  untroubled  as  was  his  life,  this  aged 
priest  had  yet  moments  when  the  sorrows  and  sins  of 
others  racked  him  as  though  they  were  his  own.  The  story 
struck  him  as  with  a  physical  blow.  It  filled  him  with 
feelings  of  repulsion  for  the  brutal  passions  it  portrayed. 
Nor  did  it  lose  by  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was 
narrated  (though  the  Abbot  thought  not  of  them) — the 
profound  silence  of  the  monastery  and  the  semi-naked 
fanatic  confessing  in  the  gloom. 

While  they  sat  silent,  the  door  opened  softly — so  softly 
that,  immersed  as  they  both  were  in  thought,  neither 
noticed  it. 

"  Tell  me  more  about  her,"  said  the  Abbot,  forcing  him- 
self to  speak  calmly.  "  Did  she  love  you?  " 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  115 

Stephanos  shuddered.  "  She  said  so;  but  I  do  not  think 
she  understood.  I — I  had  some  power  over  her. ' ' 

"Poor  girl!  " 

The  monk  bit  savagely  at  his  finger-nails. 

"  And — did  you  deceive  her?  Did  you  promise  her 
marriage?  " 

Stephanos  glanced  furtively  into  the  old  man's  stern, 
truth-compelling  eyes. 

"  Answer,  my  son." 

"  There  was  some  talk  of  it,"  muttered  the  monk, 
abashed;  adding  suddenly,  "  She  tempted  me." 

' '  No, ' '  cried  the  Abbot  sternly, ' '  your  own  evil  passions 
tempted  you.  With  all  my  heart  I  pity  her. " 

Stephanos  raised  his  head,  visibly  taken  aback. 

"  But "he  began. 

"  Not  a  word.  She  was  alone,  defenceless,  your  guest, 

and  you — you It  was  brutal!  You  behaved  like  a 

devil — and  then  like  a  coward!  However  great  your  sub- 
sequent sin,  this  alone "  He  broke  off,  deeply  agitated, 

then  asked:  "  Have  you  seen  or  heard  of  her  since?  " 

"No." 

"  There — there  was  no  child?  "  A  flush  crept  into  the 
Abbot's  pale  face.  At  the  answer  he  drew  a  breath  of 
relief. 

"  Thank  God,  at  least,  for  that!  " 

A  moment's  silence,  then  the  old  man  spoke  again: 
"  I  willtry  to  find  her." 

Stephanos  started,  fear  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"  She  may — she  is  sure  to  be  unhappy.  It  is  plain  to 
me  that  she  loved  you.  Something  may  perhaps  be  done 

for  her — some  sisterhood,  perhaps.  God  will  direct  us 

What  is  that?  " 

The  door  had  again  creaked — this  time  more  audibly 
than  before.  The  faint  sound,  grating  on  the  intense 
silence,  had  a  mysteriously  uncanny  effect.  It  conveyed 
the  impression  that  the  little  door  was  being  softly  and 
stealthily  pushed  open  by  a  cautious  hand.  Both  men  lis- 
tened. Stephanos  raised  his  head. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice,  looking  at  his 
superior. 

"  The  door,"  murmured  the  Abbot.  "  Methought — nay, 
I  feel  sure  it  opened. ' ' 


116  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  Perhaps  the  wind?  " 

"  There  is  no  wind  to-night." 

The  voice  of  the  Abbot  betrayed  superstition.  As  he 
spoke  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  his  eyes  turned 
with  lively  apprehension  towards  the  space,  now  a  foot 
in  width,  that  gave  sight  of  the  blackness  of  the  corridor. 
Again  both  men  listened,  holding  their  breath;  but  the 
silence  was  now  profound — unbroken.  The  monastery  lay 
plunged  in  the  utter  quiet  of  the  summer's  night. 

"  It  is  strongly  borne  in  upon  me  that  we  must  pray  for 
this  poor  girl,"  said  the  Abbot  softly. 

"  For  her!  "  cried  Stephanos,  taken  aback. 

"  Assuredly." 

"  But — she  is  a  woman!  " 

"  Women  suffer  for  our  sins." 

"  They  are  our  sins!  "  Stephanos  jerked  himself  erect, 
his  deep-set  eyes  blazed,  the  veins  on  his  neck  stood  out  like 
whipcord.  "  They  are  our  sins,"  he  vociferated;  "  we 
come  here  to  escape  them.  The  devil  made  them  to  lure 
man  to  destruction.  A  woman  brought  sin  upon  earth. 
A  woman  tempted  Saint  Anthony.  A  woman ' 

"  A  woman  gave  Jesus  Christ  to  the  world,"  interrupted 
the  Abbot,  gazing  with  dim  eyes  at  the  crucifix. 

Stephanos  followed  the  old  man's  gaze.  His  head, 
affected  by  long  fasts,  felt  strangely  light  and  weak.  He 
felt  emotional,  almost  hysterical,  on  the  verge  of  angry 
tears.  Shudders  from  overstrung  nerves  ran  through  him. 
Everything  became  infected  with  this  physical  weakness 
to  the  point  of  hallucination.  The  Abbot's  shadow  on  the 
whitewashed  wall  menaced  darkly — the  light  from  the  Holy 
Image  sent  a  ray  of  intolerable  brightness  into  his  brain. 
He  felt  it  going  in  and  in  as  though  it  were  a  gimlet.  The 
pain  he  suffered  amounted  to  torture. 

The  silence  lasted  so  long  that  Stephanos  grew 
uneasy. 

"  You  say  nothing,  venerable  father?  "  he  muttered. 

11  Why  did  you  desert  her?  "  demanded  the  Abbot. 
Painful  constraint  was  audible  in  his  voice.  It  was  the 
tone  of  one  who  strives  to  hold  all  personal  prejudice  in 
leash  till  he  has  thoroughly  sifted  the  truth.  Stephanos 
felt  and  resented  the  change.  It  seemed  to  his  disordered 
brain  as  though  there  were  a  conspiracy  against  him. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  117 

And  yet,  despite  his  fanatical  contempt  of  human  criticism, 
he  was  vaguely  conscious  of  a  desire  to  stand  well  in  the 
opinion  of  this  one  man. 

"  It  was  God's  wish,"  he  cried,  half  eagerly,  half  de- 
fiantly. "  Since  a  boy  I  had  longings  for  the  religious 
life.  I  was  not  as  other  boys.  God  and  the  devil  were 
always  fighting  for  me.  I  would  sin,  then  repent,  then 
sin  again.  But  somehow — somehow  I  felt  that  one  day 
God  would  conquer — would — how  can  I  tell  you? — would 
take  me  to  Himself. ' ' 

He  stared  fixedly  at  his  hands  still  grasping  the  lash, 
touched  a  smear  of  blood  with  the  point  of  his  forefinger, 
traced  a  cross  absently,  then  continued:  "  0  venerable 
father,  don't  you  understand?  This  woman  was  of  the 
devil — she  was  the  devil.  He  came  to  me,  in  her  like- 
ness: he  tempted  me,  and  I  fell.  Then  God  sent  a  Holy 
vision  to  fight  for  me — to  call  me.  Was  I  wrong  to  obey  ? 
No!  And  once  here  what  could  I  do  but  keep  silent  till 
God  bade  me  speak  ?  At  first,  I  confess,  conscience  seemed 
to  reproach  me.  To  take  the  vows  and  keep  back  aught — 
yes,  that  seemed  deadly  sin.  But  I  was  in  God's  hands: 
He  brought  me.  We  still  talked  together  face  to  face,  as 
you  and  I  do  now.  With  prayer  and  tears,  here,  in  this 
cell,  I  besought  guidance.  And  God  spoke  in  the  night. 
He  said :  '  Stephanos,  crucify  the  flesh.  But  no  word  of 
confession  to  man. '  I  obeyed.  If  He  told  me  to  fling  my- 
self over  the  precipice,  I  would  do  it.  Think  you  I  care 
for  your  penances  ?  ' '  He  sat  erect ;  his  voice  rang  with  a 
fierce  splendour  of  scorn.  "No:  God  is  my  judge.  I 
wait  for  Him!  " 

The  Abbot  listened  in  silence.  His  benevolent  face  ex- 
pressed consternation  and  amazement.  So  accustomed 
was  he  to  put  himself  in  the  place  of  the  sinner  that  his 
mind,  by  mere  force  of  habit,  sought  the  old  familiar 
groove.  In  vain.  For  once  his  divine  gift  of  sympathy 
was  at  fault.  His  view  of  life  was  a  peaceful  sunset; 
this  man's  was  an  eclipse.  The  confession  had,  however, 
one  redeeming  quality — sincerity.  The  Abbot  felt  that  at 
last  he  was  in  possession  of  the  whole  truth.  He  tried  to 
think  of  this  as  an  extenuating  circumstance.  Again  he 
failed.  Being  without  precedent  in  his  experience,  it  took 
him  aback. 


118  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

The  Greek  monastic  system,  he  knew  well,  did  not  look 
too  closely  into  the  bygone  sins  of  those  who  entered  its 
ranks.  It  salved  its  conscience  by  becoming  responsible 
for  their  souls  from  the  moment  of  their  joining  the  com- 
munity. Had  Stephanos  but  confessed  all  at  the  time  of 
his  admission  into  Barlaam,  nothing  could  have  been  ad- 
vanced against  him.  But  his  offence  lay  in  that,  by  mak- 
ing an  incomplete  confession,  he  had  obtained  absolution 
under  false  pretences. 

Two  things  struck  the  old  man  as  he  stood  there  plunged 
in  painful  thought.  The  first  was  that  the  wretched 
being  before  him  had  no  idea  of  the  gravity  of 
his  offence,  the  second  that  it  was  his  duty,  as  Abbot  of 
Barlaam,  to  report  it  at  once  to  his  ecclesiastical  superior, 
the  Bishop  of  Trikala.  The  latter  arose  from  a  suspicion 
in  his  mind  that  this  sin  demanded  a  punishment  other 
than  the  light  penalties  it  was  his  custom  to  inflict.  His 
whole  nature — tender-hearted  to  a  fault — shrank  from 
such  an  extreme  course;  but  from  the  moment  that  it 
revealed  itself  as  a  duty,  he  did  not  hesitate.  Yet  deep 
wells  of  pity  were  stirred  within  him.  Poignant  disillu- 
sionment in  Brother  Stephanos — his  pride,  the  shining 
light  of  the  monastery — gave  place  to  a  sorrow  that  had 
in  it  much  of  the  Christ-like  quality  of  suffering  for 
others. 

The  unhinged  note,  the  wild  and  blasphemous  pre- 
tensions, the  boastings,  the  scorn,  all  struck  the  Abbot 
with  unfeigned  anxiety.  Never  before  had  he  met  a  monk 
so  charged  with  violent  passions,  so  forgetful  of  the  defer- 
ence due  to  his  superior.  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to 
him  that  Brother  Stephanos  was  not  altogether  responsible 
for  his  actions. 

His  austerities,  too — the  Abbot  looked  with  troubled  and 
infinite  compassion  at  the  crouching  figure  upon  whose 
swollen  and  naked  back  the  blood  was  scarcely  dry — • 
pleaded  powerfully  in  his  behalf.  Whatsoever  his  offences, 
he  had  punished  himself  with  no  sparing  hand. 

But  it  was  with  a  soul,  not  with  a  material  body,  that 
the  aged  priest  felt  that  he  had  to  do.  Stephanos  repre- 
sented to  him  one  of  the  little  community  for  whose 
spiritual  welfare  he  judged  himself  responsible.  His 
prayers  for  the  world — for  the  millions  of  men  and  women 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  119 

unknown  to  him — were  the  natural  outpourings  of  a  love 
that  embraced  all  God 's  creatures,  tender,  yet  necessarily  im- 
personal; but  his  prayers  for  his  own  children  were  the 
very  voice  of  his  heart,  hopeful,  yet  full  of  fear — peti- 
tions sent  daily  to  the  Great  White  Throne  inscribed  in 
the  blood  and  tears  of  the  intercessor.  For  them  he  fasted 
and  did  penance,  for  them  he  denied  himself  all  comforts, 
watching  while  others  slept,  praying  while  others  kept 
silence.  He  lost  sight  of  his  own  soul  in  his  anxiety  to 
save  theirs.  He  had  one  ardent  desire,  never  omitted 
from  his  prayers,  to  meet  God  at  the  last,  face  to  face,  and 
to  be  able  to  say:  "  Lord,  here  are  the  little  ones  en- 
trusted to  me — Thine — every  one." 

But  now  it  was  brought  home  to  him  with  a  conviction 
that  gained  momentarily  in  strength,  that  the  case  of 
Brother  Stephanos  had  escaped  beyond  his  personal  con- 
trol, that  he  must  submit  it  to  a  higher  judge.  Yes,  what- 
ever it  might  cost  him  in  grief  and  shame,  he  must  write, 
stating  all  things  clearly,  asking  for  instructions.  It 
would  take  two,  or  even  three  weeks,  before  he  could  re- 
ceive a  reply.  Not  only  was  Trikala  distant,  but  the 
Abbot  had  a  suspicion  that  the  bishop  was  at  that  moment 
travelling  round  his  diocese.  Meanwhile  it  might  be  neces- 
sary to  inflict  some  form  of  penance,  and  even  to  isolate 
this  erring  brother  from  the  other  inmates  of  the  monastery. 
These,  however,  were  matters  requiring  thought,  in  silent 
and  devout  meditation. 

In  the  low,  measured  voice  of  one  who  weighs  his  words 
carefully,  the  Abbot  spoke,  touching  on  the  heinousness  of 
the  sin  both  as  regarding  its  commission  and  its  subse- 
quent concealment,  seeking  to  bring  its  seriousness  home 
to  the  sinner. 

For  the  former,  said  the  aged  priest,  looking  down  at 
the  monk  with  grave  eyes,  naught  but  the  humble  and 
contrite  heart  would  atone;  but  regarding  the  latter,  more 
complicated  in  that  it  partook  of  an  offence  against  the 
monastic  order,  he  would  inform  the  culprit  of  his  deci- 
sion later. 

Stephanos  listened  unmoved — callously,  thought  the 
Abbot,  with  pain — and  was  still  doubled  upon  himself  in 
an  attitude  of  unreasoning  stupor  when  his  superior  quitted 
the  cell. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  sun  had  set  in  one  of  those  stupendous  conflagra- 
tions that  metamorphose  the  west  into  a  furnace  and  all 
nature  into  a  hushed  spectator.  From  its  lofty  natural 
tower — like  some  Simon  Stylites  on  his  pedestal — Hagios 
Barlaam  watched  the  dying  light. 

Picturesque  at  all  seasons,  the  little  old  monastery  drew 
romance  to  itself  in  the  highest  degree  as  dusk  crept  up- 
wards from  the  ravines.  The  giant  crag  that  supported 
it  towered  from  the  profound  and  sombre  gorges  into  the 
last  delicate  rose-flush  of  day.  At  that  hour  the  venerable 
buildings,  coldly  grey  at  other  seasons,  became  almost 
beautiful,  suffused  with  transient  colour  that  imparted  a 
warm  and  fugitive  glow  to  their  weather-beaten  walls. 

But,  though  lifted  above  the  light  mists  and  fast-en- 
croaching gloom  to  a  twilight  of  its  own  that  was  tender, 
luminous,  and  all  too  brief,  Barlaam  seemed  to  die  with 
the  dying  day:  it  masked  itself  in  shadow,  grew  slowly 
grey  and  wan,  blurred  gradually  into  one  nebulous  but 
coherent  whole,  and,  while  still  retaining  the  faint  out- 
lines of  human  structure,  became  as  far  as  possible  one 
with  the  cliff  and  with  the  night. 

It  was  in  this  hour  of  dusk  that  Barlaam  most  im- 
pressed the  imagination.  "When  the  gloom  of  imminent 
night  enveloped  it,  it  loomed  upon  the  sight  but  as  a  fan- 
tastic shadow-monastery,  less  apparently  real  than  the 
rocks  at  one's  feet,  less  visibly  substantial  than  the  clouds 
overhead.  It  became  ominous,  fabulously  sinister.  It 
passed  into  an  atmosphere  of  legend.  Its  loneliness  and 
isolation  awoke  awe.  Mystery  haunted  it  about.  One 
gazed  upwards  from  the  path  at  ghostly  rampart  and  dim 
beetling  crag,  and  wondered  what  manner  of  men  dared 
to  inhabit  a  place  so  desolate,  or  to  call  it  by  the  familiar 
name  of  home. 

But  its  inmates  had  no  such  imaginative  fancies. 
Familiarity  had  robbed  their  wild  surroundings  of  wonder. 

120 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  121 

In  an  indifferent  way  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  they  were 
proud  of  their  monastery,  for  they  smiled  when  a  rare 
traveller  expressed  admiration,  but  shrugged  apathetic 
shoulders  if  questioned  as  to  its  age.  Their  ignorance  and 
lack  of  curiosity  were  alike  remarkable.  They  did  not  see 
the  use  of  talking  about  it.  It  was  there:  nothing  more 
was  to  be  said. 

If  forced  by  some  persistent  visitor,  they  would  reluct- 
antly admit  its  precarious  situation  to  have  disadvantages 
— the  ladders  did  not  suit  old  bones,  to  be  obliged  to  work 
a  windlass  whenever  it  was  necessary  to  bring  anything 
into  the  monastery  was  without  doubt  a  drawback — but 
time  and  custom  had  minimised  these  inconveniences;  and 
true  it  was,  if  transferred  elsewhere — an  event  that  rarely 
happened — the  brethren  became  homesick ;  they  missed  the 
height,  the  silence. 

But  if  atmospheric  effects  and  imaginative  phases 
escaped  them,  such  fancy  as  they  possessed  found  abundant 
vent  in  superstition.  One  and  all,  from  the  Abbot  to 
Sotiri,  shared  a  credulity  almost  beyond  belief.  Their 
ignorance  fanned  it,  their  meditative  life  fostered  it. 
It  became  not  only  a  part  of  their  religion,  but  of  their 
very  personalities,  the  subsoil  from  which  sprang  many 
of  their  thoughts  and  actions,  binding  them  to  the  present, 
linking  them  with  the  past,  pointing  upwards  to  the 
future.  Thus,  they  would  take  pleasure  in  referring  to 
this  spot  or  that,  to  this  object  or  that,  in  reverent  but 
appreciative  tones;  cross  themselves,  or  genuflect,  as  they 
drifted  aimlessly  through  the  courtyard,  or  paused  a 
moment  in  the  shadow  of  the  cloisters ;  cherishing  in  their 
simple  minds  the  memory  of  some  legend,  or  miracle, 
handed  down  by  word  of  mouth  from  the  past — how  re- 
mote a  past  none  among  them  knew  or  cared. 

But,  for  all  that,  it  may  well  be  that,  unknown  to  them, 
the  material  aspect  of  the  monastery  possessed  a  certain 
influence  over  their  minds;  that  Barlaam,  glad  at  sun- 
rise, drowsy  at  noon,  haunted  at  dusk,  or  sinister  at  night- 
fall, stirred  even  their  thin  blood  to  unconscious  recipro- 
cation. Certain  it  is  that  one  among  them,  Petros  was  not 
indifferent. 

Beside  Zetitzka  on  the  precipice  brink,  tHe  boy  had 
fallen  into  a  reverie  that  accorded  well  with  the  pensive 


122  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

scene  unrolled  before  him.  His  duties  for  the  day  over, 
he  had  captured  his  new  comrade  as  she  was  on  the  point 
of  retreating  to  her  cell,  and  had  persuaded  her  to  accom- 
pany him,  explaining  that  upon  this  vantage-ground  of  all 
places  was  to  be  found  the  coolness  that  came  only  with 
dusk  and  the  night  wind. 

The  girl  had  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  not  with- 
out difficulty. 

They  seated  themselves  upon  the  verge,  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  spot  where  Zetitzka  had  met  Dimitri  on  the 
preceding  day.  Together  they  gazed  at  the  mountains  of 
Albania,  black  against  the  tender  sky — at  the  valley,  far 
beneath  them,  self-withdrawn  into  some  enchanted  atmos- 
phere midway  between  the  repose  of  night  and  the  con- 
straint of  day — at  the  river  that  reflected  the  afterglow 
— at  the  village  of  Kalabaka,  dim  in  the  underworld,  with 
one  light  like  a  drowsy  eye  twinkling  faintly  through  mist- 
wreaths  and  trails  of  windless  smoke — and,  lastly,  across 
the  shadowy  ravine  at  the  solemn  and  uplifted  mass  of 
Meteoron. 

No  one  else  was  in  the  outer  court,  only  the  boy  and  girl, 
alone,  with  all  the  wonderful  world  at  their  feet. 

The  little  space  of  level  ground  seemed  all  the  more 
dangerous  to  Zetitzka,  seen  thus  in  the  gloaming.  No 
attempt  had  been  made  to  smooth  the  inequalities  of  the 
plot.  Rocks  at  the  unprotected  edge  assumed  fantastic 
shapes,  holes  lurked,  shadows  cheated  the  eye.  A  stumble, 
and  one  would  be  precipitated  into  the  blackness  of  the 
abyss.  Yet  Petros  would  often  stand  poised  on  the  ex- 
treme verge  and  point  out  to  her  where  the  swallows  nested, 
or  where  his  eagle  was  wont  to-,perch;  or  he  would  leap 
from  rock  to  perilous  rock  where  a  missed  footing  meant 
death,  and  all  with  an  assurance  born  of  long  familiarity, 
as  though  to  hang  over  a  precipice  with  a  thousand-foot 
drop  were  as  simple  as  to  cross  the  courtyard. 

They  conversed  in  low  voices,  with  long  hushed  pauses. 

The  little  that  Zetitzka  could  be  induced  to  say  never 
failed  to  interest  her  companion.  Her  ideas  had  for  his 
unsophicated  mind  the  charm  o'f  novelty  and  unexpected- 
ness. They  seemed  also  to  carry  weight,  to  be  the  out- 
come of  experience  far  beyond  her  years.  Again  and 
again  while  she  was  speaking  he  had  the  feeling  that  he 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  123 

was  listening  to  someone  double  his  age;  so  that  it  needed 
the  testimony  of  his  eyes — turned  abruptly  to  the  brood- 
ing but  singularly  attractive  face  at  his  side — to  convince 
him  that  it  was  only  the  new  lay  brother.  Unknown  to 
himself,  it  was  the  feminine  point  of  view  that  took  him 
aback,  tantalised  him,  allured  him. 

And  yet  another  thing.  The  views  of  this  Angelos  ap- 
peared to  be  all  turned  to  a  minor  key,  which  to  Petros 
was  incomprehensible,  seeing  that  the  world  was  so  fresh 
and  full  of  interest.  They  forced  him  reluctantly  to 
think  of  sad  things  and — as  his  experience  of  "  sad  things  " 
was  limited — of  the  death  of  Brother  Jerome,  an  aged 
member  of  the  community  who  had  died  but  a  year  agone. 
Over  the  grave  in  the  populous  little  cemetery  among  the 
rocks  the  brethren  had  droned  a  lugubrious  air  that  wailed 
of  dust  unto  dust.  The  words,  as  well  as  the  dirge,  and 
indeed  everything  connected  with  this  his  second  remem- 
bered funeral,  had  impressed  the  boy  profoundly,  affected 
him  with  a  sense  of  awe,  of  pity  tinged  with  distant  hope, 
a  feeling  too  of  being  one  of  the  guests  at  a  mysterious 
marriage  feast — so  firm  was  his  faith — and  yet  of  the  per- 
sonal remoteness  of  such  a  calamity,  so  full  did  he  himself 
feel  on  that  bright  May  morning  of  life  and  the  joy  of  all 
created  things. 

That  the  new-comer's  outlook  should  remind  him  of 
this  melancholy  experience  was  remarkable.  Petros,  some- 
what at  a  loss,  attributed  this  fact  to  the  secret  sorrow 
which  marked  this  boy,  as  it  were,  with  a  halo  of  romance, 
a  distinctive  atmosphere  that  dignified  even  such  menial 
occupations  as  the  sweeping  of  floors  and  the  dusting 
of  stalls.  In  his  heart,  Petros  felt  slightly  awed.  There 
was  at  times  a  grim  and  tragic  intensity  about  his  new 
companion,  noticeable  even  in  her  very  sparingness  of 
speech,  that  could  not  but  impress  the  boy,  himself  so 
prone  to  gay  and  spontaneous  volubility.  Her  attitude 
was  certainly  disquietingly  suggestive.  It  seemed  to  open 
hitherto  unsuspected  doors  to  possible  experience;  vaguely 
alarming,  it  is  true,  yet  mysteriously  alluring,  if  only  on 
account  of  its  incomprehensibility.  No  doubt  the  world 
was  an  evil  place.  It  had  cruelly  blighted  this  young 
stranger;  for,  guided  by  some  instinct  for  which  he  would 
have  been  at  a  loss  to  account,  Petros  felt  convinced  that 


124  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Angelos  had  not  been  ever  thus — was  not,  indeed,  thus 
by  nature — but  was  suffering  from  temporary  depres- 
sion attendant  on  the  blow  of  which  the  Abbot  had 
spoken.  Warm-hearted  and  intensely  sympathetic,  the  lad 
had  at  once  set  himself  to  counteract  this  baleful  influ- 
ence. Steeped  in  the  monastic  atmosphere  of  piety,  and 
radiating  a  faith  as  simple  as  it  was  sincere,  he  had  sought 
to  apply  the  balm  of  religion  to  this  troubled  soul,  but  he 
had  found  his  new  companion  strangely  irresponsive, 
strangely  apathetic.  She  did  not  disbelieve,  she  did  not 
argue,  but  she  looked  at  him  with  melancholy,  inscrutable 
eyes  that  made  him  feel  she  was  far  beyond  his  reach. 

Not  that  Petros  despaired ;  his  nature  was  too  optimistic 
for  that;  but  for  the  moment  he  ceased  to  wrestle,  con- 
soling himself  with  hopes  centred  upon  the  efficacy  of 
personal  prayer.  When  with  her  he  not  unf  requently  tried 
other  tactics,  seeking  to  banter  her  out  of  her  preoccupa- 
tion, contrasting  her  with  other  boys  he  had  known — light- 
hearted,  strong-limbed,  thoughtless  lads  from  Kalabaka 
and  Kastrati,  who  on  half-holidays  took  pleasure  in  visit- 
ing the  monastery.  His  tone  when  touching  on  the  dif- 
ference would  be  grave  and  dignified,  as  befitted  a  monk 
admonishing  a  presumptuously-sorrowful  lay  brother. 

"  Look  at  your  hands,"  he  cried  on  this  occasion,  point- 
ing in  the  dusk  to  where  they  were  clasped  about  her 
knees.  Zetitzka,  startled,  put  them  quickly  behind  her, 
for,  essentially  feminine,  they  constituted  a  danger. 

' '  Well, ' '  bantered  the  boy, ' '  have  you  ever  seen  a  man 's 
hands  like  that?  " 

"  Nay,  be  not  vexed!  "  he  continued  quickly,  as  she 
remained  silent:  "  By  Saint  Barlaam,  I  like  you  in  spite 
of  them!  "  He  nodded  cheerfully,  as  one  who  triumphs 
over  obstacles;  then,  with  engaging  impulsiveness: 
"  Hearken,  Angelos,  I  will  tell  you  somewhat  of  im- 
portance. 'Tis  a  secret,  but  I  can  trust  you.  A  week  agone 
I  besought  the  Holy  Virgin  to  send  me  something  young. 
I  had  in  my  mind  a  dog  or  a  cat  to  keep  me  company  in 
my  leisure  hours — Dimitri  comes  so  rarely.  Alack!  I 
prayed  with  little  faith;  for,  between  ourselves,  I  had  be- 
sought the  boon  many  times,  and  I  was  discouraged.  Truly 
was  I  answered,  not  according  to  my  deserts,  but  out  of 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  125 

her  divine  compassion.  Mark!  a  dog  or  a  cat,  prayed  I 
— and  she  sent  you!  " 

He  laughed  in  triumph.  But  Zetitzka  made  no  com- 
ment. 

"  The  venerable  father  was  right,  as  always,"  Petros 
continued  earnestly.  "  Prayer  is  always  answered,  even 
mine,  as  Brother  Nicodemus  says,  the  least  deserving." 

As  though  the  reflection  had  suggested  some  familiar 
orison,  she  heard  his  beads  click  in  the  hot  dusk. 

The  big  stars  palpitated  out,  one  by  one.  A  planet, 
serene  and  untroubled,  kept  bright  vigil  above  the  black 
line  of  roofs.  The  night  around  them  had  no  audible 
voices,  for  the  murmur  of  the  river  Peneios  far  below, 
and  the  singing  of  the  nightingales  in  the  village  orchards, 
grew  faint  and  died  long  ere  they  could  reach  the  heights. 

The  brethren  had  all  eaten  and  gone  to  their  cells.  The 
old  monastic  buildings  shrouded  themselves  in  night,  draw- 
ing the  darkness  like  a  cowl  over  their  little  bleared  window- 
eyes. 

For  awhile  the  conversation  circled  about  the  monastery, 
with  occasional  flights  into  a  profaner  world.  Petros  took 
pleasure  in  making  Zetitzka  his  confidant.  He  chatted 
freely  of  many  things — of  his  friendship  with  Dimitri ;  of 
fasts  and  ceremonies;  of  a  manuscript  he  had  lately  un- 
earthed from  the  dust  of  the  library,  full  of  breathless 
entertainment  concerning  cannibals  and  missionaries;  of 
his  fondness  for  certain  rich — and,  alas!  rare — kinds  of 
food ;  of  the  annual  visit  of  the  bishop,  chiefly  memorable, 
it  appeared,  for  a  feast  wherein  all  took  part — ay,  even 
the  lay  brethren ;  whereupon  Zetitzka  was  smacked  on  the 
shoulder  and  bidden  to  be  of  good  cheer.  Everything  in 
this  dying  monastic  world  was  fresh,  and  young,  and  full 
of  interest  for  him. 

His  exuberance  and  love  of  "  make  believe  "  vitalised 
even  the  saints — the  grim,  mediseval  saints  who  stared 
wide-eyed  and  wooden  from  the  entablatures,  or  frowned 
out  of  stiff  little  Byzantine  frames  with  backgrounds  of 
tarnished  gold.  Zetitzka  was  initiated  into  their  charac- 
teristics, and  learned,  somewhat  to  her  amazement,  that 
Saint  Pondromos  still  interested  himself  in  the  healing  of 
toothache,  colds,  and  similar  ailments;  that  Saint  Pan- 


126  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

teleemon  was  a  sure  ally  against  oppression,  connected, 
it  came  out,  with  Brother  Nicodemus ;  that  the  very  name 
of  Saint  Barlaam — if  pronounced  in  time  and  with  suf- 
ficient faith — was  sufficient  to  rout  a  multitude  of  devils. 

Every  topic  upon  which  the  boy  touched  was  so  saturated 
with  the  monastic  atmosphere  that  Zetitzka,  listening,  half 
bewildered,  half  indifferent,  could  with  difficulty  convince 
herself  of  its  reality.  It  all  seemed  a  part  of  the  night 
that  hemmed  her  round,  of  the  abysmal  blackness  that 
yawned  at  her  feet,  and  that  cut  her  off  so  hopelessly  from 
the  familiar  world  below. 

He  had  his  visions,  too,  this  young  monk,  of  all  the 
fine  things  he  was  certain  of  doing  "  one  day."  Zetitzka 
wondered  dully  at  his  enthusiasm.  By  Saint  Barlaam, 
he  would  leave  the  world  better  than  he  found  it!  He 
would  evangelise  the  heathen!  He  was  all  fire  and  zeal, 
all  for  doing  brave  things  with  life,  complacently  oblivious 
of  the  fact  that  life  proposed  to  do  things  with  him. 
That  fine  quality  in  him  demanded  fine  responses  from 
existence.  Limitations  he  cheerfully  ignored  rather  than 
scorned.  It  seemed  to  his  youthful  and  generous  mind 
as  easy  for  the  future  Petros — an  ecclesiastical  dignitary, 
mark  you,  of  no  mean  lustre! — to  erect  and  endow  fifty 
monasteries,  as  for  the  present  Petros  to  eat  his  supper. 

From  his  enthusiastic  though  hazy  descriptions, 
Zetitzka  caught  sight  of  a  renovated  Barlaam,  with  every 
cell  occupied,  with  even  richer  vestments,  cheerful  in 
its  air  of  perennial  religious  festival,  and  Petros  himself, 
its  much  beloved  Abbot,  in  a  cassock  trimmed  entirely 
with  new  fur. 

He  had  wasted  but  little  time  upon  thought,  having 
been  mostly  taken  up  with  sensations.  For  him,  the  pres- 
ent was  tinglingly  alive,  the  one  thing  important.  The 
future,  though  alluring,  was  but  a  golden  dream.  His 
days  had  been  so  ordered  for  him  by  that  mediceval  monastic 
system  of  which  he  was  the  product,  that  he  had  formed 
no  scheme  of  life,  or  of  the  universe,  beyond  what  he 
had  gathered  from  ancient  manuscripts,  from  the  sayings 
of  the  Abbot,  or  from  fragments  of  misleading  knowledge 
picked  up  from  the  brethren.  And  yet  there  fell  from  him 
at  times  a  suggestion  that  was  no  mere  echo — an  in- 
dependent thought  that  searched  and  probed,  a  hint  of 


FORBIDDEN-  GROUND  127 

another  Petros  of  whom  this  boy  was  but  the  raw  material. 
At  such  moments  of  insight  an  older  and  less  self-absorbed 
person  would  have  foreseen  the  man  that  was  to  be — a 
stronger,  maturer  personality,  mellowed  by  experience,  with 
a  deliberate  conclusive  outlook  on  life;  for  in  this  young 
monk  there  lay  dormant  potentialities  of  feeling  and  of 
action  of  which  neither  he  nor  others  were  as  yet  aware. 

But  these  glimpses  were  fleeting,  for  at  the  next  mo- 
ment he  would  be  heard  chuckling  over  some  boyish 
escapade,  or  seeking  to  enlist  Zetitzka's  sympathies  on  ac- 
count of  some  trivial  offence  which  had  brought  swift 
penance  in  its  train. 

"  S-sst!  "  he  cried  suddenly,  pointing  a  fearful  finger 
on  high.  "  See  that  bat?  Brother  Nicodemus  says  they 
are  evil  spirits.  He  prays  to  be  guarded  from  them — so 
do  I!" 

He  muttered  apprehensively  as  the  little  rodent  zig- 
zagged overhead.  But  Zetitzka  barely  heard  the  monkish 
Latin  of  his  prayer.  Her  thoughts  were  centred  upon 
herself.  More  than  ever  in  the  mysterious  starlight  did 
all  that  had  happened  to  her  since  she  left  her  home 
seem  a  dream  from  which  she  still  hoped  to  awaken.  This 
boy  also,  whose  companionship  circumstances  had  thrust 
upon  her,  seemed  at  this  quiet  hour  as  visionary  as  did  her 
surroundings:  his  simple  confidences  came  to  her  like  an 
echo  from  a  world  with  which  she  had  nothing  in  common. 
His  so-called  troubles  were  to  her  mind  too  childish  to 
arouse  sympathy.  To  sleep  in  church !  To  break  an  icon ! 
She  could  have  laughed  in  the  bitterness  of  her  heart. 

She  felt  tired,  both  physically  and  mentally.  The  ten- 
sion of  the  last  few  days,  combined  with  loss  of  sleep, 
had  told  upon  her,  and  now  she  felt  glad  just  to  sit  still 
and  do  nothing — thankful,  too,  for  the  kindly  night  that 
hid  her  from  men's  eyes.  More  especially  at  such  times 
did  the  recollection  of  her  child  come  to  her.  Her  recent 
past  had  been  so  bound  up  with  its  tiny  helpless  exist- 
ence, her  every  thought  both  by  day  and  night  so  conse- 
crated to  its  well-being,  that,  separated  from  it,  she  felt 
lost.  Its  absence  created  a  void  that  nothing  could  fill. 
A  sense  of  physical  incompleteness  oppressed  her.  Her 
strong  young  arms  felt  empty.  She  missed,  and  yearned 
for,  the  small  head  nestling  against  her  breast.  It  was 


128  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

as  though  something  vital  had  been  wrenched  out  of 
her  body.  Starting  from  uneasy  sleep,  she  would  often 
listen  eagerly  for  the  little  breath  that  she  was  so  accus- 
tomed to  hear  coming  and  going  beside  her.  Then  sud- 
denly she  would  realise  that  she  was  alone — in  Barlaam — 
and  motionless,  wide-eyed,  she  would  lie  sick  with  longing 
in  the  blackness  of  the  night. 

But  now,  soothed  for  the  moment  by  the  welcome 
obscurity,  her  fears  temporarily  lulled  by  the  deserted 
aspect  of  the  courts  and  the  comforting  presence  of  this 
boy  who  had  constituted  himself  her  companion,  Zetitzka 
allowed  herself  to  drift.  Her  mind  did  not  sanction  this 
quiescent  attitude:  it  was  persuaded  into  it  in  spite  of 
itself.  She  knew  it  would  not  last  long.  The  emotions 
she  had  undergone  had  been  so  poignant,  so  swift  in  transi- 
tion, so  heaped  one  upon  another,  that  they  had  predisposed 
her  to  welcome  any  moment  that  promised  rest  and  peace. 
She  was  faintly  aware  of  this  change  in  her  mood,  but 
had  neither  the  energy  nor  the  ability  to  trace  it  to  its 
source.  She  was  too  tired,  too  filled  with  the  feelings  of 
one  who  has  been  worsted  in  an  unequal  fight.  Some- 
thing had  proved  stronger  than  she.  Was  it  the  monas- 
tery? 

With  an  effort,  Zetitzka  remembered  how  Barlaam  had 
scowled  down  upon  her  in  the  dusk  of  her  arrival,  before 
she  began  to  scale  those  fearful  ladders ;  she  also  recollected 
how  she  had  matched  her  resolution  against  its  stern  veto 
and  had  arrogantly  fancied  herself  the  stronger. 

What  had  happened?  Although  she  had  retained  her 
footing  in  these  forbidden  precincts,  although  none  of  the 
inmates  had  discovered  her  secret,  yet,  after  all,  she  was 
no  whit  more  advanced  in  her  projects  than  she  had  been 
upon  the  day  of  her  entry.  More!  The  monastery  had 
bent  her  to  its  service;  it  had  crushed  her  pride,  it  had 
thwarted  her  persistently.  By  surrounding  the  man,  who 
was  to  have  been  her  victim,  with  a  guard,  not  merely 
of  religious  services  and  fellow-monks,  but  of  superstition, 
mediaeval  as  its  own  mysterious  past,  Hagios  Barlaam  had 
robbed  her  of  her  prey.  There  was  grim  irony  in  its  atti- 
tude. It  seemed  to  wait,  to  tolerate  her  desecrating 
presence  but  for  the  furtherance  of  its  own  sinister 
schemes,  meditating  doubtless  some  dark  act  of  vengeance 


FOEBIDDEN  GROUND  129 

upon  herself  which  eluded  her  knowledge,  but  which  filled 
her  with  vague  apprehension. 

As  these  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind,  Zetitzka 
cast  a  nervous  glance  over  her  shoulder.  There  it  was! — 
dark,  fearsome,  crouching  in  the  dusk  against  the  back- 
ground of  benighted  hills.  It  appeared  to  be  watching  her. 
It  also  had  a  wrong  to  redress,  an  insult  to  avenge. 

The  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  broke  upon  the 
silence.  Looking  towards  the  inner  court,  Zetitzka  and 
Petros  could  see  a  figure  emerge  from  the  cloisters. 

"  'Tis  Brother  Stephanos,"  commented  the  boy,  in  a 
low  voice. 

It  was  as  though  a  hand  of  ice  had  been  laid  upon  the 
girl's  heart.  In  a  flash  her  lethargy  dropped  from  her. 

The  monk  neared  them,  dim  in  the  obscurity. 

* '  He  does  not  see  us, ' '  whispered  Petros  again.  ' '  Shall 
I  speak  to  him  ?  ' ' 

"  No !  no !  "  implored  Zetitzka.  She  could  with  difficulty 
control  her  voice,  for  she  felt  herself  trembling. 

The  experience  of  the  night  before  rushed  to  her  mind : 
it  had  haunted  her  all  day — the  harrowing  confession  over- 
heard in  the  blackness  of  the  corridor.  Unable  to  sleep, 
goaded  by  relentless  thoughts,  she  had  been  impelled  to 
seek  Stephanos,  had  been  unable  indeed  to  keep  away, 
with  no  clear  idea  of  what  she,  a  woman  and  unarmed, 
could  effect,  hoping  against  hope  that  fate  might  in  some 
unexpected  way  prove  her  ally.  But  the  discovery 
that  the  Abbot  was  already  with  the  monk  had  banished 
hope  from  her  heart. 

To  a  mind  brooding  upon  previous  failures,  and  more 
than  half  persuaded  to  attribute  them  to  some  super- 
natural agency,  the  coincidence  came  as  a  final  shock — a 
final  proof.  There  was  no  longer  room  for  doubt.  Fate 
had  decided  against  her,  and  she  had  stood  there,  with 
no  suspicion  that  she  was  playing  the  part  of  eavesdropper, 
but  overwhelmed  with  an  immense  dejection,  chained  also 
to  the  spot  by  the  sound  of  the  deep,  familiar  voice  speak- 
ing of  her,  of  her  child,  of  the  wrong  its  owner  had  done 
her — had  stood  there  motionless,  till  the  imminent  fear  of 
discovery  had  enforced  flight. 

And  now  she  looked  at  the  dim  figure,  watched  over 
by  some  mysterious  Providence — looked  at  him  with  feel- 
9 


130  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

ings  too  tumultuous  for  words.  His  presence  there,  alone, 
on  the  precipice  brink,  taunted  her.  It  mocked  her  with 
the  unattainable,  as  though  it  jeered:  "  See!  I  am  here. 
Death  is  at  my  feet,  but  you  are  powerless  to  punish  me. ' ' 

Again  the  bitter  injustice  of  it  ate  like  vitriol  into  her 
heart.  There  came  a  mist  before  her  eyes.  She  had  to 
put  a  strong  curb  upon  herself  to  hide  her  feelings  from 
her  companion. 

The  quiet  night  kept  watch.  These  tormented  human 
souls  were  part  of  it,  raised  high  above  the  sleeping  world, 
one  with  the  clouds  and  the  stars. 

Yet  the  strangest,  the  most  singular  phase  of  the  situa- 
tion, eluded  Zetitzka,  even  as  it  remained  unknown  to 
Stephanos.  The  man  and  woman  who  had  branded  each 
other's  lives,  who  brooded  upon  each  other's  memory  con- 
tinually, who  were  to  each  other  as  tinder  is  to  flame,  were 
stranded  together  upon  this  remote  pinnacle-top,  so  near, 
yet  never  coming  into  contact. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SLOWLY  Stephanos  turned  and  retraced  his  steps. 
Zetitzka  drew  a  long  breath. 

* '  Verily, ' '  murmured  a  voice  at  her  side, ' '  verily,  a  good 
man!  " 

She  turned  sharply  towards  her  companion. 

"  Good!  "  she  cried.  The  bitter  and  scornful  emphasis 
caused  the  boy  to  stare  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"  But  assuredly,"  he  insisted,  "  such  holiness  bringeth 
honour  to  the  monastery.  Already  do  they  talk  of  him 
at  Hagios  Triada  and  Meteoron.  'Tis  even  prophesied  he 
may  become  a  saint,  ay,  and  work  miracles!  "  He  paused 
to  give  this  expectation  full  effect,  then  with  a  burst: — 
"  O  Angelos,  right  joyful  would  it  be  for  this  dear  Bar- 
laam  to  possess  a  real  saint,  abounding  in  love  and  miracles. 
Bethink  you,  pilgrimages  and  pilgrimages  would  come 
here,  and  much  glory  to  God  and  our  monastery  would  ac- 
crue. ' ' 

But  she  did  not  reply. 

' '  You  like  him  not  ?  ' '  said  Petros  brusquely. 

She  stared  at  him  in  sudden  alarm. 

He  continued: — "  I  saw  you  look  at  him  to-day,  as  he 
passed  you  in  the  Catholicon.  You  have  bad  thoughts,  my 
friend;  naught  but  prayer  and  fasting  will  purge  them 
away.  But  ill  becomes  it  for  me  to  admonish.  I  do  not 
like  him  myself." 

"  Ah!  "  she  cried,  letting  out  her  breath  in  a  gush  of 
satisfaction. 

"  Nay,"  he  continued  dolefully.  "  Be  not  glad.  It  is 
because  my  heart  is  vile." 

"No." 

"  But,  yes,  otherwise  I  would  by  no  meang  have  these 
thoughts.  The  venerable  father  says  I  ought  to  conquer 
them.  But  there  " — he  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  out- 
stretched hands — "  the  evil  one  is  stronger  than  I." 

131 


132  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  Why  do  you  dislike  him?  "  she  questioned  sombrely. 

He  thought  awhile,  then  embarked  upon  a  tale  of  how 
a  harmless  anecdote,  culled  by  Brother  Gerasimos  from  the 
Neon  Asty,  had  been  robbed  of  all  humour  by  Brother 
Stephanos.  According  to  Petros,  the  unexpected  presence 
of  the  monk  had  fallen  like  a  blight  upon  the  company. 

"  That  is  so  like  him,"  commented  Zetitzka  with  bitter- 
ness. 

"  I  told  all  to  the  venerable  father,"  continued  the  boy, 
"  and  he  explained  it  was  because  the  thoughts  of  Brother 
Stephanos  were  fixed  alway  on  lofty  and  devout  matters. 
But  he  himself  is  not  thus,  yet  he  meditates  much.  It 
puzzles  me  mightily.  I  wonder  sometimes  if  the  blessed 
saints  were  gloomy  and  hard  spoken.  I  doubt  it,  for  they 
have  kind  and  gracious  countenances,  ay,  and  some  of 
them  look  as  if  they  were  trying  to  smile.  Have  you  taken 
heed  of  Saint  Sebastian  in  his  icon  near  the  Bemaf  Right 
charitable  does  he  look,  ay,  in  spite  of  the  arrows." 

Zetitzka  saw  his  tall  hat  wag  meditatively  in  the  dusk, 
then  she  caught  a  whisper: — "  Much  is  still  hidden  from 
me,  but  I  will  assuredly  know  all  when  I  become  an 
abbot." 

They  sat  without  speaking  for  several  minutes.  The 
night  breeze  fanned  them  lightly,  bringing  faint  scents 
from  the  sleeping  valley.  All  at  once  Petros  yawned,  then 
stretched  himself. 

"  It  is  late, ' '  he  said,  ' '  let  us  go  back  to  our  cells. ' ' 

"  Wait,  "cried  Zetitzka. 

He  looked  at  her  with  drowsy  surprise,  for  her  tone 
was  constrained.  But  the  night  hid  her  expression  from 
him. 

Something  had  come  unexpectedly  into  her  heart,  a  feel- 
ing as  if  self-control  were  exhausted,  an  imperative  desire 
born  of  the  hour  and  his  kindness,  to  confide,  to  seek 
advice,  to  find  someone  who  would  befriend  her. 

"  I  want— I  want— 

Petros,  drowsy,  indulgent,  waited  with  mild  curiosity; 
but  the  dark  figure  beside  him  said  no  more. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing." 

Her  tone  gave  the  lie  to  the  word.  It  roused  in  the  lad's 
mind  a  keen  desire  to  know. 


FOEBIDDEN  GROUND  133 

"  Is  it ?  " 

"  No,  no;  it  isn't."  She  had  sprung  to  her  feet. 
"  Never  mind.  Let  us  go  in." 

He,  too,  got  up  and  began  reluctantly  to  follow  her, 
for  she  had  started  to  cross  the  court.  He  could  see  her 
flitting  before  him,  black  and  misty  in  the  starlight.  Her 
behaviour  puzzled  him  immensely. 

Suddenly,  when  least  he  expected  it,  she  came  back 
hastily,  stood  before  him,  gazed  into  his  face  doubtfully, 
questioningly,  almost  wistfully,  as  though  seeking  some- 
thing. Her  manner  was  strangely  agitated ;  her  eyes  very 
dark  and  lustrous.  She  filled  him  with  vague  uneasi- 
ness. 

"  Well,"  he  said  awkwardly,  "  what  is  it?  " 

"  It  is — no.     I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you." 

"  If  'tis  your  secret "  he  began  somewhat  scorn- 
fully, but  broke  off  as  he  heard  an  unmistakable  choke. 
Impulsively  he  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

' '  Don 't  touch  me, ' '  she  cried  testily ;  then  with  an  in- 
voluntary catch  in  her  voice  that  went  straight  to  his 
heart,  "  O  Brother  Petros,  forgive  me!  I — I  can't  bear 
it." 

"  Never  mind,"  he  soothed,  entirely  nonplussed.  "  Nay, 
think  not  of  it  any  more,  though  I  know  not  what  you 
mean.  Come,  you  are  tired.  We  will  go  to  bed." 

"  No.  I  must  speak."  She  caught  his  arm.  He  felt 
her  trembling.  For  a  moment  she  paused,  then  all  at 
once  the  words  overflowed,  vehemently,  recklessly,  goaded 
into  utterance  by  distress,  forced  from  her  too  by  hot 
Southern  impetuosity. 

Petros,  more  and  more  bewildered,  could  make  nothing 
of  it.  It  appeared  that  this  unaccountable  lay  brother 
wished  he  were  dead — that  he  ought  to  go  back  some- 
where, but  dare  not — that  something — Saint  Barlaam  alone 
knew  what! — had  been  all  useless,  worse  than  useless. 

Amid  much  wild  talk  one  thing  was  obvious,  even  to 
Petros.  His  new  companion  was  miserable.  But  before 
his  sympathetic  but  bemused  brain  could  think  of  any- 
thing to  say,  there  came  another  swift,  inexplicable  change. 
He  was  urgently  implored  to  forget  the  whole  incident. 
Being  of  a  literal  turn  of  mind,  he  gravely  pointed  out 
that  this  would  be  impossible. 


134  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  But  you  will  tell  no  one,"  she  entreated. 

"  Nay,"  he  replied,  after  thought.  "  The  Abbot  would 
not  wish  me  to  repeat  it.  But  tell  him  yourself.  You 
have  no  idea  how  sweetly  he  can  comfort." 

In  silence  they  walked  slowly  side  by  side  to  the  dor- 
mitories. 

Barely  had  Zetitzka  entered  her  cell  than  she  again  heard 
his  voice. 

"  You  mean  not  what  you  said?  "  he  whispered 
earnestly. 

"  What?  "  she  questioned. 

"  About  going  away." 

She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  brow.  The  darkness,  the 
silence,  and  the  whole  distressful  and  hopeless  situation 
weighed  like  lead  upon  her. 

"  I — do  not  know,"  she  murmured  dejectedly. 

He  came  nearer. 

"  You  cannot — you  must  not  go.  Nay,  you  have  only 
just  come." 

"  Hush!  "  she  whispered,  for  in  his  eagerness  he  had 
raised  his  voice,  "  hush,  you  will  wake  them." 

He  continued  rapidly,  but  in  more  guarded  tones: — 

"  One  does  not  come  to  a  monastery  to  leave  it  at  once. 
It  is  a  serious  step.  You  have  scarcely  seen  aught  of  our 
life.  Is  it  the  food  you  do  not  like?  " 

"  No,  no." 

"  Then  wait  a  month — two  months,  and  we  will  talk 
of  it  again.  When  you  have  witnessed  one  of  our  great 
festivals  you  will  wait  to  see  another.  The  Abbot  liketh 
you  well;  he  would  be  sore  grieved  if  you  departed  now. 
And  I — what  would  I  do  ?  I  would  be  right  miserable. ' ' 

She  shook  her  head.  He  seemed  conscious  of  her  dis- 
belief, though  the  darkness  shrouded  her  from  his  sight, 
for  with  renewed  earnestness  he  went  on: — "  'Tis  true, 
I  would  be  very  lonely  now  without  you.  Moreover,  it 
would  not  be  grateful  to  the  Blessed  Virgin.  She  sent 
you.  You  are  a  direct  answer  to  prayer.  Dear  brother, 
stay." 

Zetitzka  could  not  but  feel  touched.  He  was  so  sin- 
cere, so  tremendously  in  earnest.  Instinctively  her  heart 
warmed  to  him.  She  had  ceased  to  fight  against  his 
influence.  The  fact  that  she  now  relied  upon  him  and 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  135 

even  clung  to  him  for  support  failed  to  alarm  her.  In- 
dependence seemed  a  doubtful  good.  It  was  much  more 
to  the  point  that  in  her  loneliness,  and  in  this  prison- 
house  of  her  adversity,  she,  at  all  events,  possessed  a 
friend. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MORNING  mists  filled  the  ravines.  White,  diaphanous, 
clinging,  they  lay  like  a  becalmed  sea,  above  which  the 
pinnacles  of  Meteora  floated  like  islands  into  the  faint 
gold  of  the  sunrise.  Every  rock  and  stone,  every  leaf 
and  twig  in  the  submerged  area  glistened  with  moisture, 
dawning  in  chill,  wet  lights,  blurring  as  the  mist  clouds 
shifted,  fading  mysteriously  into  a  background  of  grey 
nothingness. 

Already,  even  in  the  gorges,  the  heat  was  oppressive. 
The  windless  air  hung  heavy,  and  as  if  no  ventilation  had 
kept  cool  during  the  long  night  these  bedchambers  of 
nature,  whose  walls  were  giant  cliffs,  and  whose  ceiling  was 
the  sky. 

Along  the  rough  track  that  climbed  and  descended 
alternately  came  Petros  and  Zetitzka.  They  walked 
rapidly,  making  light  of  the  irregularities  of  the  path. 

' '  What  said  the  Abbot  when  you  asked  leave  ?  "  in- 
quired Zetitzka. 

"  At  first,  when  I  mentioned  Lavra,  he  looked  grave; 
then,  after  thought,  said  he :  '  My  son,  take  this. '  See !  ' ' 
— Petros  proudly  held  up  an  antique  metal  cross  sus- 
pended from  a  rosary — "  this  is  hollow  and  containeth  a 
small  but  most  precious  relic.  I  wot  not  precisely  what — 
a  bone  or  holy  hair,  belike.  The  venerable  father  said 
'twould  ward  off  aught  evil.  He  gave  it  to  me.  Assuredly, 
'tis  high  honour  to  be  so  entrusted." 

For  a  moment  he  swelled  with  importance,  then,  for- 
getting his  dignity,  executed  a  leap  over  a  boulder. 

"  We  need  not  return  till  Compline.  We  have  here 
store  of  victuals — bread  and  wine — ay,  and  sweetmeats!  " 
He  nodded  back  at  her  appreciatively.  "  The  venerable 
father  is  ever  thus.  You  do  not  know  him  yet.  He  would 
give  the  very  cassock  off  his  back.  I  bespake  Sotiri  to  tend 
him  well,  and  in  no  wise  to  forget  his  midday  meal.  I 

136 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  137 

forgot  it  once,  and  was  mightily  penitent,  but  the  venerable 
father  was  of  opinion  that  he  had  eaten  as  usual !  By  the 
saints,  you  are  accustomed  to  hills — one  can  see  that !  ' ' 

His  eyes  rested  upon  her  with  frank  approval.  Her 
movements  were  free  and  unconstrained,  a  gait  rendered 
possible  by  the  scantiness  of  her  lay  brother's  costume. 

Suddenly  aware  of  critical  inspection,  Zetitzka  reddened. 
There  were  times  when  the  woman  in  her  would  out — 
when  this  short  tunic  seemed  to  her  a  bold  and  indelicate 
covering,  revealing  more  than  it  concealed  of  her  limbs. 

To  her  relief  he  did  not  notice  her  confusion. 

The  tone  of  their  conversation  was  lighter  than  Zetitzka 
had  imagined  possible.  Had  she  been  informed,  upon  her 
arrival  in  the  monastery,  that  before  a  fortnight  would 
elapse  she  would  not  only  go  on  an  expedition  with  this 
young  monk,  but  would  chat  with  him  easily  and  naturally, 
she  would  have  contradicted  her  informant  with  scorn. 
For  the  latter,  absence  from  the  monastery  was  responsible. 
She  felt  as  if  an  immense  and  crushing  weight  had  been 
lifted  from  her  heart — as  if  only  now,  for  the  first  time 
for  many  days,  she  were  able  to  breathe  with  freedom. 
From  the  moment  that  Petros  had  proposed  the  outing,  a 
secret  and  feverish  anxiety  had  possessed  her  lest  some  un- 
foreseen obstacle  should  prevent  it  taking  place.  Not  till 
the  ladders  were  descended  did  she  believe  that  she  had 
really  escaped ;  and  now  that  she  was  actually  on  the  path, 
now  that  every  onward  step  was  carrying  her  farther  and 
ever  farther  from  Stephanos,  a  profound  sense  of  emancipa- 
tion filled  Zetitzka 's  heart  with  inexpressible  relief.  For 
the  monastery  and  her  enforced  servitude  within  it,  she 
was  conscious  only  of  an  instinctive  aversion,  a  repugnance 
that  had  deepened  immeasurably  since  her  repeated  failures 
had  compelled  her  to  realise  that  she  must  bow  to  the 
veto  of  Destiny.  Her  presence  there,  among  these  old 
and  fanatical  monks,  had  become  a  mere  tempting  of 
Providence,  an  act  of  foolhardiness  that  could  now  lead 
to  nothing  but  discovery.  With  all  her  might  she  longed 
never  to  return. 

It  was  but  an  inevitable  reaction  from  the  long  days 
and  nights  of  haunting  anxiety,  that  all  that  was  young 
in  Zetitzka,  all  that  clung  pathetically  to  the  gay  and 
laughing  side  of  existence — the  side  so  sternly  denied  her 


138  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

by  Fate — should  welcome  this  change,  should  greet  it 
with  outstretched  arms,  should  turn  to  it  gladly,  as  chil- 
dren turn  to  merriment,  and  flowers  to  sunshine.  Bar- 
laam  once  behind  her,  her  feet,  as  it  were,  once  more 
on  the  "  terra  cognita  "  of  the  world's  level,  all  her  sur- 
roundings became  changed.  As  to  a  prisoner  restored  to 
freedom  after  languishing  in  confinement,  all  nature  spoke 
to  her  with  new  voices.  She  seemed  to  listen  to  a  per- 
sonal message  in  the  lark's  song,  to  rediscover  something 
touchingly  tender  and  intimate  in  the  familiar  faces  of 
wayside  flowers.  The  past  became  an  evil  dream,  the 
present  a  welcome  reality. 

"See!"  cried  Petros  suddenly.  "The  mist  clears. 
There  is  Meteoron." 

Her  eyes  followed  his  pointing  finger.  Up  the  sheer 
face  of  the  cliffs  the  mists  smoked  and  shredded,  allowing 
the  summit  to  struggle  through.  Petros,  hands  to  mouth, 
shouted  loudly.  His  cry  came  back  to  them,  repeated 
many  times,  as  the  precipice  snatched  at  the  sound;  then, 
after  an  interval,  the  ghost  of  a  far-off  greeting  fell  from 
the  heights.  It  sounded  thin  and  weird,  like  the  scream 
of  a  bird,  and,  looking  up,  they  saw  the  face  and  beard 
of  an  old  monk,  hundreds  of  feet  above  them,  gazing  out 
of  a  rude  door  or  window. 

"  Why  do  they  build  monasteries  so  high?  "  inquired 
Zetitzka  in  a  tone  of  wonder. 

"  Tis  safer." 

"  From  brigands?  " 

"  Nay,  from  Crusaders." 

He  laughed  at  her  puzzled  face,  and  gladly  embarked 
upon  the  tale  of  how  the  monasteries  of  Meteoron  were 
founded  long,  long  ago,  in  the  dark  Middle  Ages,  by 
hermits  fleeing  from  the  lances  of  knights  who  hunted 
them  down,  as  men  hunt  wild  animals,  among  the  rocks. 

Zetitzka  listened  with  interest,  her  eyes  travelling  up 
the  face  of  the  stupendous  cliff  to  where,  precarious  as 
an  eagle's  eyrie,  monastic  roofs  showed  grey  against  the 
blue.  The  story  of  bloodshed  and  adventure  stirred  her 
to  excitement. 

"  And  did  the  hermits  kill  them  too?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 
"  They  could  easily  roll  rocks  upon  them  from  up  there." 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  139 

The  young  storyteller  surveyed  her  wide  eyes  and 
heightened  colour  with  mild  astonishment. 

"  Nay,"  he  replied;  "  I  think  not  so." 

"  Then  what  did  they  do?  " 

"  They — they  prayed  for  them." 

Her  contemptuous  exclamation  awoke  his  annoyance. 
Informing  her  that  she  was  little  better  than  an  infidel, 
he  led  the  way  with  much  dignity.  Indifferent  to  his  dis- 
pleasure, Zetitzka  followed,  her  thoughts  still  on  the  heights. 

"  What  I  want  to  know "  she  began. 

Petros,  his  indignation  forgotten,  waited  till  she  had 
rejoined  him.  "  What  I  want  to  know,"  she  repeated, 
"  is,  how  did  they  get  up?  " 

"  Who?" 

"  The  hermits.  How  did  the  first  one  get  up?  There 
were  no  ladders  in  those  days.". 

Petros'  eyes  twinkled. 

"  Listen,  my  boy.  When  I  was  young  and  foolish — 
a  mighty  time  ago — I  asked  the  same  question  of  Brother 
Nicodemus;  whereat  he  made  reply  that,  as  God  in  His 
infinite  wisdom  had  not  seen  fit  to  enlighten  us  on  the 
subject,  it  was  presumptuous  of  us  to  seek  to  find  out. 
There ! — let  that  be  an  answer  for  you  likewise. ' ' 

"  'Tis  no  answer,"  she  retorted,  determined  to  have  the 
last  word. 

As  they  wandered  on,  conversing  cheerfully,  even  her 
companion  shared  in  her  sight  the  glad  metamorphosis  of 
nature.  He  was  no  longer  a  part  of  the  monastery.  She 
almost  forgot  her  instinctive  dislike  of  his  monkish  costume 
when  she  looked  at  his  bright  young  face,  that  smiled 
responsive  to  the  summons  of  the  day.  More  than  ever  did 
she  feel  kindly  disposed  towards  this  young  monk.  Little 
by  little  he  had  endeared  himself  to  her.  Her  debt  to  him 
was  deeper  far  than  she  was  aware ;  but  even  the  proportion 
of  which  she  was  cognisant  awoke  her  gratitude. 

She  imagined  her  feelings  towards  him  to  be  similar 
to  those  she  might  have  had  for  a  brother.  Zetitzka  had 
never  had  a  brother;  but  the  thought  came  to  her  that, 
if  she  had,  and  were  in  trouble,  his  companionship  would 
be  as  welcome  as  was  that  of  this  young  man. 

As   they    rambled    on,    their   talk    reflected    the    glad 


140  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

emancipation  of  their  minds,  for  to  Petros  also  was  this 
rare  holiday  an  intoxication.  Yet  all  the  time  it  was  on 
thin  ice  that  this  boy  and  girl  drew  near  to  each  other. 
Zetitzka,  by  casting  off  the  gloom  that  mentally  isolated 
her,  and  had  hitherto  proved  her  safeguard,  stepped  all 
unawares  into  the  zone  of  danger.  Her  movements — 
unconsciously  betraying  the  shape  of  her  supple  young 
figure — her  pleasure  in  the  rare  flowers  that  grew  among 
the  rocks,  her  voice,  her  expressions,  her  smile,  all 
triumphantly  proclaimed  her  sex.  The  gaze  of  Petros, 
resting  upon  her  with  no  conscious  realisation  of  her 
charm,  seemed  yet  to  touch  some  mysterious  chord  of 
natural  affinity  between  the  sexes  that  vibrated  harmoni- 
ously within  her  bosom.  Under  this  kindly  influence  much 
that  had  been  repressed  crept  into  being,  blossomed,  and 
grew  glad.  Nothing  but  the  lad's  immense  ignorance  of 
women  saved  her  from  discovery.  And  even  accepting 
this  ignorance  in  its  entirety,  it  seemed  at  times  as  if  he 
must  see,  so  unmistakably  did  the  feminine  shine  forth  in 
all  she  thought,  and  said,  and  did. 

How  long  would  this  blindness  last?  Each  hour  that 
added  to  their  intimacy  added  to  her  danger,  for  each 
found  her  more  off  her  guard. 

Only  once  during  that  happy  walk  did  her  material  sur- 
roundings force  her  thoughts  back  to  Stephanos. 

The  comrades  had  paused  where  the  path,  coiling  down- 
wards and  doubling  upon  itself,  permitted  a  backward 
and  last  view  of  Barlaam.  The  pinnacle,  upon  whose 
precarious  summit  it  was  perched,  rose  like  a  shaft  out 
of  the  blue  ravine  along  which  they  had  been  travelling, 
its  base  still  in  shadow,  but  its  crest  in  sunlight.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  her  admission  that  Zetitzka  had  seen 
the  monastery  from  a  distance  and,  as  it  were,  in  per- 
spective; and  the  marvel  of  its  position  struck  and  held 
her  anew. 

It  seemed  impossible  to  imagine  that  upon  the  tip  of 
that  upright  and  slender  finger  of  rock  she  herself  had 
lived  and  undergone  emotions  so  harrowing.  It  filled  her 
with  incredulity,  and  with  an  overpowering  sensation  of 
personal  insignificance.  It  appeared  to  her  now  as  im- 
possible to  associate  her  loneliness  and  her  despair  with 
that  airy  and  fantastic  summit  as  to  imagine  a  heart- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  141 

rending  drama  enacted  in  the  nest  of  a  bird.  She  gazed 
at  it  in  mute  wonder.  How  tiny  it  seemed!  How  far 
off!  How  frail!  Surely  a  child's  touch  could  topple  it 
over  into  that  misty  ravine?  And  yet — and  at  the  thought 
her  blood  grew  cold — at  that  very  moment  Stephanos  and 
Destiny  were  there,  awaiting  her  return. 

And,  as  if  further  to  emphasise  the  sinister  accom- 
paniment to  the  gay  carol  of  life,  as  Zetitzka  watched,  a 
dark  speck  sailed  between  her  and  the  azure  dome  that 
roofed  Barlaam — an  eagle  wheeling  ominously;  and  the 
grim  note  of  tragedy  that  had  darkened  her  life  seemed 
for  the  moment  to  darken  nature  also. 

A  shout  from  her  companion  startled  her.  Petros  was 
endeavouring  to  attract  the  attention  of  an  old  man  stand- 
ing, staff  in  hand,  at  some  little  distance  from  the  path. 
The  stranger  presented  a  wild  and  ascetic  appearance, 
one  with  the  cliffs  and  the  rocks. 

"  'Tis  Brother  Johannes,  the  hermit,"  cried  Petros 
eagerly.  "  Hi!  Johannes,  wait!  I  come."  Then  turning 
to  Zetitzka:  "  Keep  ever  to  the  path,  Angelos;  I  will 
overtake  you." 

Obedient  to  instructions,  Zetitzka  walked  forward  alone. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  mists  had  vanished.  The  world  was  bathed  in  sun- 
light and  barred  with  shadow.  To  the  west,  delicately 
neutral-tinted  clouds  had  piled  themselves  high  above  the 
rampart  of  cliffs.  Not  the  faintest  breeze  stirred;  the 
heat  was  on  the  increase. 

Before  Zetitzka  the  gorge  opened  itself  out  into  a  more 
spacious  valley,  green  along  a  hidden  watercourse  with 
the  foliage  of  dwarf  oaks;  permitting  the  eyes  to  travel 
over  quivering  distances  to  far  uplands  beyond.  Below 
was  to  be  seen  the  red  of  village  roofs,  while  dots  of 
whiteness  on  a  sunburnt  slope  told  of  goats  in  search  of 
pasture.  Zetitzka  stood  and  watched  the  scene,  uncon- 
sciously influenced  by  its  beauty.  The  tinkle  of  goat- 
bells,  thin  and  clear  on  the  breathless  air,  pleased  her. 
They  sounded  familiar.  She  felt  at  peace.  She  had  a 
day  of  respite — "  a  whole  long  day  "  she  again  told  her- 
self with  a  sigh  of  relief;  and  at  the  thought  something 
of  the  brightness  of  morning  passed  into  her  heart  and 
became  visible  in  her  face. 

She  was  roused  from  the  dreamful  state  into  which  she 
had  sunk  by  the  sound  of  a  child  crying.  Moving  quickly 
round  an  opposing  rock,  she  came  face  to  face  with  the 
cause.  On  the  outskirts  of  a  thicket  a  woman  was  gather- 
ing firewood;  a  little  boy  assisted  her,  while,  in  a  rocky 
cleft  hard  by,  lay  a  baby,  from  which  came  the  cry  that 
had  attracted  her  attention.  The  plaintive  sound  drew 
her  towards  it  instinctively.  Her  expression  softened  to 
a  sweet  and  womanly  tenderness.  Forgetful  of  all  save 
that  it  was  a  baby  and  unhappy,  she  took  it  up  and 
cradled  it  within  her  arms.  Her  touch  acted  as  a  charm. 
After  a  few  spasmodic  sounds,  the  crying  ceased.  Then 
she  remembered  its  mother.  The  woman,  a  few  paces 
off,  was  staring  at  her  stupidly,  in  utter  amazement  not 
unmixed  with  alarm;  even  the  little  boy  from  behind  his 

142 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  143 

mother's  skirts  was  gaping  at  her  with  wide-eyed  appre- 
hension. 

"  See,"   Zetitzka   smiled   reassuringly.     "  She   sleeps." 

The  woman  drew  near. 

"  'Tis  true."  She  whispered  the  words  under  her 
breath;  then,  her  eyes  passing  swiftly  with  increasing 
amazement  from  the  smooth  face  to  the  monastic  garb: 
"  What  manner  of  man  are  you?  " 

"  I — I  am  a  lay  brother,"  murmured  Zetitzka  flushing. 
"  But  I  love  children.  How  old  is  she?  " 

' '  Twenty-one  weeks, ' '  muttered  the  woman  mechanically, 
her  eyes  still  riveted  in  astonishment  upon  her  questioner. 

"  She  is  big  for  her  age.  And  heavy!  You  need  not 
be  frightened;  I  am  used  to  children." 

' '  I  am  not  frightened.  One  can  see — Holy  Virgin !  never 
did  I  know  a  man  to  hold  a  baby  thus! — even  her  own 
father  is  not  always  so  careful.  And  you — where  is  your 
mother  ?  What  do  you  here  ?  Do  they  teach  you  to  nurse 
babies  in  your  monastery?  " 

Zetitzka,  confused,  but  responsive,  echoed  her  laugh. 
The  two  women  continued  to  converse.  The  opportunity 
of  talking  to  one  of  her  own  sex  was  seized  by  the  girl 
gladly.  Around  them  capered  the  little  boy,  his  fear  for- 
gotten. 

Suddenly  Zetitzka  started.  She  had  caught  sight  of 
Petros  standing  rigid  with  amazement  on  the  path. 
"  Good-bye,"  she  said  hastily,  and  thrust  the  child  into 
its  mother's  arms. 

"  Hi !  hi !  Why  so  sudden  ?  "  exclaimed  the  woman  after 
her;  but  turning,  she  too  caught  sight  of  Petros,  and  said 
no  more. 

The  comrades  walked  on  side  by  side.  Zetitzka,  half 
dreading,  half  anticipating  the  reproaches  she  knew  to  be 
imminent,  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  path. 

* '  Hearken !  ' '  broke  out  Petros,  coming  to  an  impulsive 
halt.  "  What  have  you  to  say?  " 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered  shortly,  walking  on. 

"  How  nothing?  "  he  cried,  following  her  and  gesti- 
culating in  his  excitement.  "  You  break  one  of  our 
strictest  rules — ay,  verily,  break  it  before  my  eyes,  and 
^and  call  it  'nothing'!  " 

"  What  rule?    I  broke  no  rule." 


144  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  And  how  about  talking  to  a  woman!  Looking  her 
boldly  in  the  face!  Laughing  with  her — ay,  laughing;  I 
saw  you  myself !  ' ' 

"  I  forgot  that,"  she  said,  and  looked  at  him  curiously. 

' '  Aha !  Now  you  see !  Oh,  you  are  in  a  parlous  state ; 
my  poor  brother!  Forgot?  Ay,  'twas  the  devil  made 
you  forget ;  he  has  ever  a  woman  up  his  sleeve.  In  sooth, 
you  will  have  to  be  chastised,  for  it  behoves  me  to  tell 
all  to  the  Abbot.  Nay,  be  not  thus  alarmed,  it  is  soon 
over." 

"  You  may  have  to  endure  stripes  on  the  bare  back," 
he  continued,  not  without  sly  relish,  deepened  by  her  sud- 
den gasp.  "  Ay,  or  perform  the  cation;  or  fast,  per- 
adventure  for  a  day ;  or  wash  the  brethren 's  feet.  I  have 
done  all  in  my  time.  Believe  me,  fasting  is  by  far  the 
most  grievous.  But,  as  the  saints  live,  right  sorry  am  I 
that  this  happened  to-day.  Alack,  'tis  ever  thus  in 
life !  How  wise  and  full  of  knowledge  is  our  worthy  Nico- 
demus :  '  Women, '  said  he  once  in  my  hearing,  '  are  one 
of  the  roots  of  trouble.'  " 

Petros  spoke  as  might  have  Solomon,  wiped  the  per- 
spiration fro'm  his  shining  face,  hitched  his  bundle  more 
comfortably  on  his  shoulder,  and  added :  ' '  Let  us  go  on. 
'Tis  too  hot  here.  What  were  you  doing  to  the  infant?  " 

"  I  was  putting  it  to  sleep." 

He  stopped  dead — his  mouth  opened  to  its  widest. 

"  You  were  putting  it  to  sleep!  You!  Holy  Pon- 
dromos!  " 

' '  Yes ;  the  poor  little  thing  was  crying.  I  knew  at  once 
what  it  wanted.  It  was  good  the  moment  I  took  it  up. 
You  need  not  laugh.  There  is  nothing  amusing  in  that." 
She  tossed  her  head.  "  Is  that  breaking  another  silly 
rule?  " 

"  Nay,"  chuckled  Petros,  "  I  think  not  so;  but  we  will 
ask  the  venerable  father. ' ' 

'  He!    He  knows  nothing  about  babies!  " 

"  He  knows  about  everything.  Oh,  smile  an  you  like, 
but  his  wisdom  is  wondrous,  far  above  that  of  this  world! 
Moreover,  you  confound  things,  as  ignorance  does  ever; 
it  is  no  question  of  whether  he  be  versed  in  the  ways  of 
infants,  but  whether  or  no  a  lay  brother  be  permitted  to 
put  them  to  sleep. ' ' 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  145 

"  Them?     Only  one." 

"  One  sufficeth,"  said  the  young  monk  loftily. 

They  walked  on  side  by  side  for  a  few  minutes  without 
speaking — Zetitzka  deep  in  uneasy  speculation — Petros,  who 
had  evidently  forgotten  the  incident,  humming  a  chant. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  suddenly  catching  her  eye,  "  why  look 
at  me  like  that?  " 

"Like  what?" 

"  As  if — nay,  'tis  unheard  of — ! — almost,  forsooth,  as  if 
you  pitied  me !  If  you  envied  me  now  it  would  be  seemly. 
I  am  a  monk." 

She  did  not  explain,  but  after  a  moment  asked: 

"  Do  you  never  speak  to  women?  " 

"  God  forbid!  "    He  crossed  himself  hastily. 
'  You  fear  them?  " 

"  I  do  not  I  "  he  cried,  nettled  by  her  air  of  compassion. 
'  Then  why  avoid  them?  " 

"  Because Why  ask  foolish  questions?  " 

"  What  would  you  do  if  you  met  one  here,  on  this 
path?  " 

"  I  would  not  look  at  her." 

' '  But  if  she  spoke  to  you  ?  ' ' 

"  If  she  spake.     H — m.    First  would  I  make  the  sign 
of  the  most  blessed  cross — thus ;  then  would  I  answer,  one 
word  belike,  without  looking.     The  venerable  father  says 
it  is  ever  well  to  be  courteous." 
'  But— if  she  went  to  Barlaam?  " 

"Barlaam!"  He  almost  shouted  the  name  in  his 
amazement.  "  You  lose  your  wits.  No  woman  goes 
there." 

'But  if  she  did?" 

' '  If  she  did  ?  "  A  boyish  smile  crossed  his  face.  ' '  Me- 
thinks  I  would  hide — peradventure  in  the  cloisters — and 
send  Brother  Nicodemus  to  hold  parley  with  her." 

He  did  not  notice  her  sudden  silence,  but  at  the  next 
turning  of  the  path,  cried  eagerly:  "  Behold,  there  is 
Lavra !  ' ' 

Before  them,  where  the  ravine  gave  to  the  valley,  form- 
ing the  last  stand  of  the  pinnacles  of  Meteora,  rose  a  tower 
of  rock,  its  summit  crowned  by  the  ruins  of  a  monastery. 
"  My  father  and  I  lived  there  between  the  plague  and 
the  earthquake,"  whispered  Petros  at  her  elbow'  as  they 
10 


146  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

gazed  upwards  at  the  abandoned  dwellings,  naked  in  the 
pitiless  glare  of  the  sun.  "  My  father  feared  naught  save 

the  wrath  of  God,  but  they  do  say "  and  he  poured  into 

her  ears  a  tale  of  distinctly  medieval  quality  wherein  monks 
and  devils  played  an  equal  part.  Zetitzka  listened,  her  face 
puckered. 

"  But "  she  expostulated,  "  you  lived  there  after  the 

plague,  did  you  hear  them?  " 

"  Nay,  but  I  was  only  a  child  and  slept  soundly  of 
nights.  Moreover,  Brother  Nicodemus  says  that  they  are 
in  sooth  fiends,  feigning  to  be  monks.  He  says  likewise 
that  as  long  as  my  father  lived — and  I  tell  you  Angelos, 
a  right  sainted  man  was  he — they  were  af eared  to  come. ' ' 

"  And  now ?  " 

"  Now  you  are  here.  For  long  have  I  wanted  to  go — I 
thirst  for  adventures — but  no  one  would  come  with  me." 

"  But — I  too  might  have  refused." 

"  But  you  will  not!  Behold,  we  are  within  its  very 
shadow!  The  ladders  are  behind  that  rock;  they  are 
easy  of  ascent.  You  will  come?  " 

"  You — you  are  sure  that  it  is  only  at  night  the  devils 
sing?  " 

"  Ay,  and  at  dusk.  We  have  all  the  day  before  us. 
Once  Brother  Apostoli  heard  them  at  nightfall  and  ran 
away  with  so  pious  a  haste  that  he  came  near  to  breaking 
his  neck.  He  was  in  sorry  plight,  for  the  devils  had 
beaten  him  sore,  and  sober  speech  had  departed  from  him. 
Dimitri  said  he  was  drunk — at  times  Dimitri  is  little  bet- 
ter than  a  Turk.  But — you  are  not  frightened?  " 

Her  negative  reassured  him;  still  chatting,  he  led  the 
way  to  the  ladders. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  long  happy  hours  of  that  summer  day  drifted  by, 
linking  experiences  into  a  golden  chain  that  served  to 
bind  the  fates  of  Petros  and  Zetitzka  yet  more  closely 
together.  There  was  that  in  the  isolation  of  their  sur- 
roundings that  made  each  take  conscious  comfort  in  the 
other's  presence.  Upon  closer  inspection,  the  monastery 
proved  depressing  in  the  extreme.  Not  a  building  but  had 
been  shaken  by  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  earth.  The  keen 
sunshine,  pouring  from  a  sky  of  unalterable  blue,  em- 
phasised the  sense  of  desolation.  An  air  of  tragedy  haunted 
the  ruins,  for  long  ago  a  plague  had  stamped  out  the 
monastic  inmates. 

Hither  and  thither  they  rambled,  Petros  leading  the 
way.  For  him  the  place  was  full  of  unforgettable  memo- 
ries. 

"  Here  was  it — "  he  had  paused  in  the  shadow  of  the  re- 
fectory— ' '  that  my  father  and  I  first  broke  bread.  By  the 
Saints,  it  seems  like  yesterday!  " 

As  they  stood  together  in  the  porch  of  the  Catholicon 
his  ejaculations  of  regret  were  heartfelt.  The  building, 
so  familiar  to  him,  was  ruined  almost  beyond  recogni- 
tion. The  roof  had  fallen  in.  Gaps  could  be  seen  in  the 
walls.  Among  the  rubbish  that  encumbered  the  floor 
grasses  and  wild  flowers  had  planted  themselves,  their 
delicate  green  and  scattered  stars  of  colour  strangely  gay 
amid  the  pervading  desolation.  Though  much  had  van- 
ished, the  place  was  not  without  evidences  of  bygone  sanc- 
tity, mysteriously  appealing  to  the  imagination.  The 
corona  lay  all  twisted  among  fallen  rafters.  The  Holy 
Doors,  that  had  aforetime  concealed  the  Bema,  had  been 
flung  to  the  ground;  and,  as  the  comrades  paused  in  the 
entrance,  a  carrion  crow,  uttering  a  hoarse  cry,  flitted  up- 
wards into  the  sunshine. 

Unaccountably  subdued,  but  happy  in  each  other's  com- 

147 


148  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

panionship,  they  wandered  out  to  the  level  plot  that  over- 
looked the  precipice.  Here,  as  in  Barlaam,  Zetitzka  was 
conscious  of  towering  height. 

"  This  is  where  I  played,"  said  Petros.  He  spoke  in 
a  low  voice,  noting  details  with  a  curious  eye,  his  thoughts 
visibly  in  the  past.  Zetitzka  looked  at  him  compassionately. 
She  could  see  the  lonely  little  boy  stranded  aloft  with  the 
melancholy  self-absorbed  man. 

"  I  played  at  monasteries,"  he  explained  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  was  the  Abbot  and  these  stones  were  the  monks.  It 
was  a  new  game.  My  brethren  were  silent,  and  gave  no 
trouble;  when  one  disobeyed  I  flung  him  over  the  preci- 
pice. ' ' 

Nothing  loath,  he  continued  to  tell  of  his  past.  The 
Hegoumenos  of  Barlaam  had  offered  a  home  within  the 
monastery  to  the  widower  and  his  little  son,  but  the  offer 
had  been  declined.  Lavra,  haunted  though  it  was  by  repu- 
tation, appealed  more  to  the  broken-hearted  man  in  search 
of  solitude  and  the  consolations  of  religion.  There  had 
he  and  Petros  passed  many  peaceful  years,  visited  by  few ; 
there  had  he  prayed,  and  watched,  and  waited,  and  there 
at  the  last  had  death  found  him. 

Never  before  perhaps  had  a  child  been  brought  up 
under  circumstances  more  strange,  amid  scenery  more  wild 
and  gloomy.  And  yet  Petros,  with  the  adaptability  of 
youth  and  the  happy  temperament  which  was  his  birth- 
right, had  extracted  pleasure  from  these  early  years — he 
even  held  them  in  happy  memory.  The  ladders,  from  the 
day  on  which  he  had  been  allowed  to  climb  them  alone, 
had  proved  an  unfailing  source  of  amusement;  the  ser- 
vices— which  his  father,  with  a  curious  religious  zeal,  had 
conducted  single-handed  in  the  Catholicon — had  filled  him 
with  solemn  and  important  pleasure,  as  though  they  were 
a  religious  game.  Nor,  as  it  would  seem,  had  his 
father  neglected  his  education.  It  had  been  a  pastime  for 
the  lonely  man  to  instruct  this  fresh,  young  mind  so  full 
of  avidity  for  information ;  to  fill  it  with  devout  thoughts, 
and  rigorously  to  exclude  from  it  all  knowledge  of  the 
world.  He  had  possessed  the  gift  of  making  lessons  in- 
teresting, for  Petros  did  not  regret  these  hours  stolen  from 
the  sunshine  and  his  play.  Of  the  lad's  mother  he  had 
spoken  only  at  rare  moments,  as  of  an  angel  in  heaven; 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  149 

of  other  women,  and  the  part  they  played  in  the  scheme  of 
created  things,  he  had  spoken  not  at  all. 

All  this  did  Zetitzka  glean  by  degrees.  The  narrative 
was  told  disjointedly,  in  spurts  of  remembered  incident, 
interlarded  here  and  there  with  appeals  to  old-world  saints 
and  quaint  monastic  phrases,  sounding  well-nigh  risible 
on  the  lips  of  one  so  young.  At  times  the  narrator  paused 
to  fling  stones  into  the  gorge,  or  exclaim  at  the  heat,  or 
suggest  a  raid  upon  the  luncheon  wallet. 

They  broke  their  fast  in  the  shadow  of  the  refectory. 
Everything  tasted  good,  even  the  sour,  black  bread  and  the 
thin  red  wine  strongly  impregnated  with  resin. 

The  meal  over,  the  boy  lay  among  the  weeds,  indolently 
naPPy>  while  Zetitzka  seated  herself  by  his  side.  Petros, 
producing  a  cigarette — a  treasure  begged  from  Dimitri — 
puffed  away  with  boyish  satisfaction.  It  did  not  even 
seem  necessary  to  talk.  A  sparrow  fluttered  down  from  the 
eaves  for  a  dole  of  crumbs,  and,  emboldened  by  the  silence, 
a  lizard  like  a  little  green  flame  darted  from  out  a  crack 
in  the  masonry.  Above  the  ruined  walls  a  skylark  could 
be  seen  beating  his  wings  against  the  roof  of  the  world. 
The  thin,  faint  rapture  of  his  song  just  reached  their 
ears. 

The  memory  of  that  summer's  day  was  destined  to 
become  one  of  the  dearest  possessions  of  this  young  monk 
— dearer  than  aught  else  in  the  world.  Even  at  the  time, 
though  he  took  it  for  granted  with  the  careless  assurance 
of  youth,  it  was  full  of  peace  and  quiet  happiness — no 
Nicodemus  or  Apostoli  to  look  sour,  no  duties  to  perform, 
only  this  new  companion  to  impress  and  patronise — a  de- 
lightful experience  for  one  till  now  the  youngest  in  the 
community. 

The  air,  at  that  height  ever  delicate  and  renewed,  ex- 
hilarated their  spirits  like  wine.  The  blue  sky  was  heaven's 
own  smile ;  the  sunshine  the  very  soul  of  gladness.  It  was 
impossible  to  believe  that  in  a  world  so  fair  there  could 
be  such  things  as  unhappiness  and  despair.  Very  beauti- 
ful, too,  was  the  scene  unrolled  below  them.  Sun  and  heat 
had  woven  a  veil,  azure  and  shot  with  gold,  in  the  loom 
of  the  morning.  This  translucent  fabric,  flung  over  the 
wide  panorama  of  gorge  and  cliff,  valley  and  mountain, 
had  a  certain  festal  air  as  of  cloth  of  gold. 


150  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Zetitzka  watched  Petros  through  semi-closed  eyelids, 
half  dazzled  by  the  strong  reflected  sunshine,  as  he  lay 
face  downwards  among  the  luxuriant  weeds.  His  tall 
black  hat — always  an  incongruous  object — had  fallen  off, 
and  his  thick  brown  hair  straggled  unheeded  to  his  shoul- 
ders. The  touch  of  femininity  which  the  latter  might 
have  imparted  was  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the 
strong  outlines  of  his  face.  A  wondering  and  unconscious 
admiration  tinged  her  thoughts.  Had  her  mind  possessed 
culture,  it  might  have  likened  him  to  a  Viking,  or  a  young 
Greek  god.  The  feeling  that  would  have  prompted  the 
simile  was  there,  although  the  thought  was  beyond  her. 

Many  times  in  course  of  conversation  was  she  tempted 
to  forget  his  calling,  lured  by  his  manner  and  face  to 
think  of  him  only  as  a  type  of  young,  gay,  and  vigorous 
manhood.  But  his  costume,  his  beads,  and  the  glimpse 
of  his  tonsure,  when  he  turned  his  head  with  one  of  the 
quick  movements  habitual  to  him,  all  brought  her  back 
to  the  truth.  And  each  time  the  reality  caused  her  a  shock 
of  almost  incredulous  amazement. 

When  he  spoke  of  his  childhood's  home  in  Athens  and 
told  how  his  father  had  taught  him  to  read  and  write,  a 
quick  gleam  of  comprehension  came  into  her  face.  She 
now  understood  how  it  was  that  he  had  seemed  so  superior 
to  the  others — why  he  did  not  giggle  at  mistakes  in  the 
service,  as  did  Brother  Gerasimos,  nor  expectorate  on  the 
Catholicon  floor,  as  did  Brother  Nicodemus. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  a  monastic  anecdote,  Petros 
looked  up  to  find  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  Something  in 
their  dark,  inscrutable  depths  seemed  to  reflect  uncom- 
fortably upon  his  youth  and  inexperience.  He  stopped 
short  and  plucked  testily  at  a  weed. 

"  What  age  have  you?  "  He  put  the  question  half 
defiantly,  then  at  the  answer  gave  a  crow  of  triumph. 

"Eighteen!  Then  I  am  the  elder!"  His  fingers 
caressed  the  down  of  his  incipient  moustache.  "  Holy 
Pondromos!  You  do  not  look  your  age.  There  is  scant 
promise  of  hair  on  your  face." 

"  The  saints  forbid!  "  she  ejaculated. 

"  That  is  mere  foolishness  and  envy.  A  beard  be- 
cometh  a  monk  bravely.  All  the  brethren  have  beards. 
I  likewise  will  have  one — soon.  Now  you — "  he  inspected 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  151 

her  with  unqualified  commiseration — "  You  might  as  well 
have  been  born  a  woman !  ' ' 

"  You  need  not  despise  women,"  she  muttered  in  a 
stifled  voice,  gazing  past  him  to  where  the  distant  hills 
could  be  seen  above  the  ruins.  "  My  boy,  you  have  much 
to  learn.  You  think  all  women  bad,  and  are  afraid  even 
to  speak  to  them.  That  is  wrong — all  wrong.  A  woman 
could  teach  you  much.  She  may  not  be  as  brave  as  a  man 
— but — but  she  suffers  more." 

Petros  gasped.  An  acolyte  daring  to  lecture  a  monk! 
A  novice  addressing  a  superior  as  ' '  boy  ' ' !  The  offensive 
epithet  topped  the  situation. 

A  heat  of  indignation  leapt  into  his  face,  but  cooled 
as  his  glance  rested  upon  the  culprit.  Unconscious  of  his 
displeasure,  Zetitzka  was  gazing  into  the  distance.  She 
was  seated  in  a  pensive  attitude,  her  cheek  impressed  by 
the  knuckles  of  her  brown  hand,  her  eyes  full  of  sombre 
thought.  Seen  in  relief  against  the  deep  purple  shadow 
of  the  refectory  wall,  her  chin  and  the  column  of  her 
throat  glowed  with  the  lustre  of  alabaster. 

Petros  stifled  an  impatient  exclamation.  There  was 
something  about  his  companion  that  thwarted  indigna- 
tion. She  baffled  him,  awoke  his  curiosity,  lured  him  to 
her  by  some  personal  magnetism  that,  while  quickening 
his  interest  and  even  awakening  his  affection,  made  him 
vaguely  ashamed,  as  of  unmanly  weakness.  By  rights  he 
ought  to  put  her  in  her  place,  instruct  her  in  the 
respect  which  was  his  due — yet  he  kept  silent.  He  won- 
dered at  himself,  sought  to  excuse  himself  by  calling  to 
mind  her  unhappy  past,  of  which  he  knew  nothing,  but 
which  was  visible  in  a  subdued  and  wordless  melancholy 
that,  eluded  for  a  time  as  her  mood  lightened,  invariably 
returned  like  an  oppressive  memory  that  refuses  to  be 
banished. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ACCUSTOMED  to  the  occasional  advent  of  a  lay-brother, 
Petros  had  looked  for  something  illiterate,  dirty,  and  a 
child  of  the  soil,  for  the  Greek  monasteries  recruit  prin- 
cipally from  the  peasant  class.  But  this  boy  lying  beside 
him  expressed  himself  with  fluency,  was  clean  in  person, 
and  disconcertingly  original  in  thought. 

As  he  pondered,  the  solution  of  part  of  the  mystery 
came  to  him.  Her  quaint  Albanian  accent  reminded  him 
that  this  youth  came  of  ancient  race.  Petros  had  never 
been  to  Albania,  but,  living  so  near  the  frontier,  it  had 
often  stirred  his  boyish  imagination.  Brigands  lived 
there!  According  to  Brother  Nicodemus,  to  whom  the 
unknown  invariably  suggested  evil,  it  was  the  terrestrial 
headquarters  of  the  devil  himself.  Brother  Stephanos  had 
come  out  of  Albania,  and  by  his  very  reticence  had  added 
to  the  supernatural  interest  of  the  country.  The  blue 
barrier  of  hills  that  reared  themselves  on  the  sky-line 
alternately  allured  and  repelled  a  mind  simple  and  credulous 
as  that  of  a  child;  and  sometimes,  when  the  sun  sank 
behind  the  summits  in  a  sea  of  blood,  the  boy  would  stand 
on  the  precipice  brink  and  wonder  with  unspeakable  awe 
if  the  red  that  stained  the  west  were  a  sign  that  God 
was  angry  with  Albania.  And  now  this  strange  youth 
had  come  to  them  from  that  mysterious  country — what 
wonder  if  he  were  different  from  others. 

"  And  you  are  content  to  pass  all  your  life  like — like 
this?  " 

As  Zetitzka  asked  the  question  in  a  tone  of  wondering 
compassion,  she  waved  her  hand  towards  the  courtyard. 
The  sunlit  stagnation  of  the  place  exemplified  well  the 
monotony  of  his  existence.  He  stared  at  her,  still  in 
amazement.  Musingly  she  continued: 

1 '  I  have  never  been  in  a  monastery  before.    We  never  see 

152 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  153 

monks  where  I  live.    There  are  priests — but  they  are  all 
married. ' ' 

"  Assuredly." 

Her  look  of  interrogation  forced  him  to  explain. 

"  All  priests  marry  in  our  church,  or  become  monks 
like  me.  Did  you  not  know  that?  Kyrie  Eleison!  you 
are  wofully  ignorant,  methought  that  was  known  to 
everyone.  If  their  wives  die,  then  must  they  at  once  enter 
a  monastery.  Brother  Elias  was  married  before  he  came 
to  us.  He  spake  once  to  us  of  his  wife.  He  said  that 
what  he  loved  most  in  the  monastery  was  the  blessed 
silence." 

"  But  once  they  have  taken  the  vows  monks  cannot 
marry?  " 

"  Nay,  by  no  manner  of  means." 

"  And  you,  you  must  stay  here  for  always  and  always?  " 

"  Past  all  question." 

"Until  you  die?" 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "  Saint  Barlaam,  you 
ask  always  foolish  questions.  And,  moreover,  all  this  is 
well  known  unto  you!  Why  look  at  me  thus?  It  is  not 
seemly.  Nay,  I  will  not  be  pitied!  I  am  by  no  means 
going  to  die  yet !  ' ' 

Zetitzka  smiled  involuntarily.  Her  rare  smile  was  sin- 
gularly winning.  A  glitter  of  white  teeth,  and  a  dimple 
at  the  corner  of  her  mouth,  like  the  impress  of  a  tiny 
finger,  came  into  view.  Her  eyes  lost  their  habitual  sad- 
ness. Her  heightened  beauty  glowed  out,  revealed  itself  in 
its  true  colours,  soft,  and  inexpressibly  sweet.  So  womanly 
did  she  look  that  the  marvel  was  that  her  secret  should 
remain  undiscovered.  But  Petros  merely  frowned  upon 
her  with  comical  disapproval. 

Sobering  suddenly,  she  continued  to  follow  the  trend 
of  her  thoughts : 

"  It  seems  such  an  idle,  useless  life:  no  work,  except 
for  the  lay  brethren,  and  for  the  monks  only  long,  long 
prayers,  instead  of  walking  about  bravely  with  a  knife  and 
a  gun.  To  me  it  seems  no  life  for  a  man.  Now  you  " — 

she  nodded  at  him — "  if  you  met  an  enemy " 

"  But  I  have  no  enemy." 

Wonder  tinged  with  envy  looked  from  her  eyes;  then 


154  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

she  nodded  again.  "  True,"  she  said,  thoughtfully;  "  but 
— but  if  you  had,  would  you  kill  him  ?  ' ' 

"  Saint  Barlaam!  "  he  almost  shouted.     "  No!  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  She  held  her  head  high.  "  It  is  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of.  Men  are  always  fighting.  My  father 
has  killed  a  man:  he  tells  the  story  often.  It  is  rare  to 
find  a  man  in  our  village  who  has  not  killed  someone.  And 
as  for  my  uncle — people  speak  of  him  still,  for  he  killed 
five  enemies  before  he  was  killed  himself !  ' ' 

Her  evident  pride  in  these  deeds  of  prowess  made  him 
gasp.  Petros  had  heard  rumours  of  Albanian  Arnauts, 
and  their  bloody  feuds,  but  from  the  lips  of  one  so  young 
and  gentle  they  came  with  a  strange  note  of  incongruity. 
A  strain  of  racial  lawlessness  was  apparent  at  times  in 
the  new-comer's  voice  and  manner.  It  repelled  Petros, 
and  yet  mysteriously  attracted  him,  for  he  felt  unaccount- 
ably drawn  to  his  companion. 

"  Have  you  killed  anyone?  "  he  asked  in  an  awe-struck 
voice. 

Her  expression  altered  swiftly. 

"  No,"  she  muttered,  averting  her  face.  It  became 
plain  even  to  him  that  she  was  ashamed  of  the  con- 
fession. 

"  I  rejoice!  "  he  cried,  clapping  her  on  the  shoulder 
with  a  heartiness  that  made  her  wince — "  I  rejoice  exceed- 
ingly! Think,  only  if  you  had!  Why,  your  life  would 
have  been  an  endless  penance — fasting,  vigils,  stripes! 
Holy  Saint  Basil!  And  they  might  even  have  expelled 
you !  ' '  His  tone  expressed  a  fearful  appreciation  of  the 
gravity  of  the  punishment.  Then,  with  a  burst  of  com- 
passion :  ' '  You  would  be  cast  on  the  world,  my  poor 
brother — and,  believe  me,  the  world  is  a  terrible  place. 
Brother  Nieodemus  says  so.  He  says  it  is  as  full  of  devils 
as  is  Meteoron  of  monks.  Some  take  the  shape  of  money- 
bags, some  of  forbidden  dainties,  and  some  of  women  who, 
if  you  hearken  unto  them,  change  into  fiends  and  fly  off 
with  your  soul!  " 

The  serious  manner  with  which  he  imparted  this 
astounding  information  took  Zetitzka  aback.  Credulous 
enough  herself — for  the  folk-lore  of  her  race  related  many  a 
grisly  and  supernatural  legend — she  might  have  believed 
him,  had  not  her  experience  of  life  taught  her  otherwise. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  155 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  she  thought,  "  for  one  almost  a 
grown  man  to  believe  such  tales!"  An  amused  and 
almost  imperceptible  smile  lurked  within  her  eyes.  To 
Petros  her  slightly  incredulous  expression  was  but  an- 
other proof  of  her  ignorance.  He,  too,  smiled  indulgently. 
Their  mental  attitude  towards  each  other  was  curiously 
similar. 

Then,  boyishly  anxious  to  remind  her  that  on  certain 
matters  she  would  find  him  uncompromising,  he  said,  with 
simple  earnestness: 

"  As  for  what  you  said  of  my  calling,  it  grieves  me 
sore  to  hear  you  talk  so  foolishly — nay,  sinfully!  It  is 
a  beautiful  life.  We  monks  endure  want  and  even  afflic- 
tion, counting  loss  as  gain.  We  give  up  the  whole  world 
for  the  sake  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  That  is  better 
than  killing  people!  What  can  you  know?  You,  for- 
sooth! who  had  not  even  heard  of  the  blessed  Antimins! 
And,  moreover,  your  words  contradict  your  deeds.  Why 
did  you  come  here  if  not  to  lead  this  holy  life?  "  He 
paused  triumphantly,  but  no  reply  came.  Warming,  he 
continued:  "  I  would  that  I  could  show  you,  but  I  too 
am  ignorant.  You  must  ask  the  venerable  father.  As 
for  me,  I  have  vowed  with  God's  help  to  abide  in  the 
monastery  in  virginity,  temperance,  and  devotion  to  the 
last  breath  of  my  life.  I  tell  you,  Angelos,  I  am  proud 
to  be  a  monk.  I  have  chosen  a  truly  good  and  blessed 
work,  if  so  be  that  I  persevere,  for  good  works  are  per- 
formed with  labour  and  accomplished  with  pain." 

He  paused,  breathless.  Into  his  usually  merry  face 
there  had  come  a  fervent  look.  His  words — had  she  but 
known  it — were  merely  a  quotation  from  the  office  of  the 
"  Lesser  Habit,"  but  the  conviction  in  his  voice  infused 
the  old  monkish  service  with  deathless  vitality.  Noting 
her  hesitation,  he  added  with  melancholy  emphasis:  "  I 
fear  me,  Angelos,  you  will  never  become  a  monk." 

"  And  you,"  she  questioned,  "  will  you  never  regret 
it?  Nay,  be  not  angry!  I  want  to  know.  You  are 
young " 

"  Young  I  " 

"  Surely  to  be  young  is  better  than  to  be  old.  And  it 
is  sad  to  shut  yourself  up  like  this  before  you  know  any- 
thing of— of  life." 


156  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

He  looked  at  her,  half  wondering,  half  wistful. 

"  Life?  I  suppose  you  mean  life  down  there "  He 

nodded  dubiously  towards  the  shimmering  valley.  "  Does 
that  bring  happiness?  " 

To  his  astonishment,  all  light  seemed  to  fade  from  her 
eyes,  and,  though  he  coaxed  her  to  explain,  she  would 
say  no  more. 

As  far  as  was  possible,  during  the  long  day,  did  the  com- 
rades avoid  the  interior  of  the  monastic  buildings.  These 
mere  shells,  consisting  of  little  more  than  roofs  supported 
by  tottering  walls,  were  too  eloquent  of  the  sadness  and 
evanescence  of  existence  to  appeal  either  to  Petros  or 
Zetitzka. 

It  was  after  all  but  natural  that  this  boy  and  girl, 
both  so  unconscious  of  the  significance  of  their  relation- 
ship and  of  the  inevitable  awakening  that  hourly  drew 
nearer,  should  be  engrossed  with  each  other.  The  pres- 
ent was  all  in  all  to  them.  They  brought  the  very  spirit 
of  young  life  into  the  ruined  courts.  In  them  the  inti- 
mate needs  of  the  moment  found  expression.  They  stood 
for  the  "  now,"  that  is  always  present,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  the  "  then,"  that  is  either  unborn  or  has 
ceased  to  be.  All  around  them  whispered  dead  voices. 
The  past  cried  to  them  insistently — wailing  of  vanished 
lives,  of  the  inevitableness  of  death,  of  the  stern  facts  of 
existence,  commonplaces,  perhaps,  but  nevertheless  great 
poetic  truths — illustrating  its  lesson  with  grass-grown 
court  and  deserted  cloisters;  but,  with  the  bright  and 
egotistic  thoughtlessness  of  youth,  they  shut  their  ears 
to  its  warnings. 

Towards  evening  a  change  was  observable  in  the  weather. 
The  heat  had  increased.  Not  a  breath  of  air  was  to  be 
felt.  From  the  north  ominous  clouds,  ragged  and  dun. 
came  creeping  over  the  face  of  the  sun.  The  skylark  had 
vanished,  beaten  earthwards  by  the  oppression  in  the 
air.  From  where  they  were  they  could  see  the  path 
coiling  downwards  towards  the  village  of  Kastrati.  Great 
shadows,  like  immense  birds  of  prey,  swept  it  continually 
with  their  wings.  From  the  ruins  no  sound  came.  The 
silence  was  profound  and  vaguely  disquieting. 

Petros  and  Zetitzka  had  risen  to  their  feet.  All  at 
once  the  lad  started  to  cross  the  court,  and  the  girl,  un- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  157 

willing  to  be  left  alone,  followed  him.  Reaching  the 
verge  they  stood  side  by  side,  without  speaking;  behind 
them,  the  ruins;  before,  and  immensely  below  them,  the 
valley,  still  in  sunlight,  but  being  devoured  momently  by 
the  approaching  gloom. 

Both  were  moved  by  feelings  of  awe;  Petros  too  by 
sensations  of  ill-defined  superstition  connected  with  demons 
and  hostile  spirits  of  the  air. 

Suddenly  the  boy  turned  to  look  for  his  companion,  and 
experienced  relief  to  find  her  by  his  side. 

"  It  comes  this  way,"  he  whispered.  Barely  had  he 
spoken,  than  a  mutter  of  thunder  made  itself  heard.  It 
was  like  the  roll-call  of  innumerable  drums,  muffled,  far- 
off.  Rain  began  to  fall,  at  first  in  huge  reluctant  drops, 
warm  on  the  face  and  hands,  then  faster  and  ever  faster. 
At  the  instigation  of  Petros  they  sought  shelter  in  the 
porch  of  the  Catholicon.  The  storm  broke  over  them 
with  an  unrestrained  fury  suggestive  of  the  tropics.  The 
lightning  blinded  their  eyes,  alternately  snatching  at 
their  surroundings,  then  relinquishing  them  to  gloom. 
The  thunder  drew  near  and  became  all  but  continuous, 
exulting  in  its  strength,  bellowing  in  organ-like  bursts 
that  roared  loud  above  the  shouting  of  the  cliffs.  All 
nature  became  one  vast  orchestra  whose  deepest  note  was 
thunder  and  whose  highest  was  the  newly-arisen  wind 
wailing  among  the  ruins.  There  was  something  grand  in 
the  storm,  something  peculiarly  appropriate,  too,  in  those 
elementary  voices  raised  suddenly  in  the  silence.  The 
gorges  had  found  expression. 

"  You  are  not  afraid?  "  exclaimed  Petros. 

By  the  light  of  a  flash  he  had  noted  her  look. 

She  was  glad  that  a  sudden  crash  diverted  his  atten- 
tion. How  could  she  have  told  him  her  thoughts? — that 
this  storm  recalled  the  fatal  night  in  the  mountains  when 
she  had  sought  shelter  in  the  home  of  Stephanos.  The 
memory  nearly  stifled  her.  She  had  to  put  a  strong  curb 
upon  herself  to  conceal  her  agitation.  How  vividly,  how 
poignantly  it  all  came  back — awaking  anger,  shame,  and 
bitter  unavailing  regret. 

"  It  grows  late;  needs  must  we  be  going  back,"  he 
cried,  bending  his  head  to  hers  and  speaking  loudly. 

"  No,  no,"  she  remonstrated. 


158  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  But,  yes,  in  an  hour  they  will  begin  Compline." 

"  Wait  till  the  rain  stops." 

She  snatched  at  any  excuse;  but  the  rain  had  no  inten- 
tion of  stopping.  On  the  contrary,  it  increased  in 
violence,  falling  in  dense  sheets,  obliterating  the  hills, 
hoarsely  vociferous  on  tile  and  flagstone,  breeding  rivulets 
innumerable  that  fled  from  the  roofs  and  guttered  into 
the  abyss. 

The  loneliness  of  their  surroundings  made  them  in- 
tensely conscious  of  each  other,  almost  as  though  they 
were  the  only  living  beings  in  the  world.  At  an  excep- 
tionally alarming  flash  he  drew  her  further  back  into  the 
porch,  and,  once  there,  allowed  his  arm  to  remain  about 
her  shoulders.  She  made  no  effort  to  release  herself. 
His  touch  imparted  a  sense  of  protection,  of  human  com- 
panionship for  which  she  was  grateful. 

While  they  stood  thus  they  were  startled  by  a  muffled 
roar — not  of  thunder,  but  of  something  within  the  monas- 
tery— then  silence,  broken  only  by  the  steady  thresh  of 
the  rain.  They  looked  blankly  at  each  other. 

"  Can  it "  Petros  checked  himself,  his  eyes  still 

fixed  on  hers  in  wide  apprehension. 

"  Yes?  "  she  whispered  uneasily. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  story  of  Brother  Nicodemus?  " 

"  About  the  devils?  " 

"  Yes." 

'"  I  don't  believe  it" 

"What?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it."  Zetitzka  spoke  with  what  her 
mother  termed  her  obstinate  manner,  but  for  all  that  she 
cast  a  nervous  glance  over  her  shoulder.  Her  disbelief 
shocked,  yet  vaguely  reassured  him. 

"  And  if  there  were  devils,"  she  continued  quickly, 
"  you  said  they  came  only  at  night.  It  is  not  late  enough 
for  them  yet." 

He  shook  his  tall  hat  ominously. 

"  Nay,  but  it  is  parlous  dark.  Perddventure  they  have 
mistaken  the  hour." 

Bidding  her  await  his  return  he  ran  off  into  the  rain. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  was  again  with  her,  a  grin  on  his 
wet  face. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  159 

"An  adventure!"  he  cried  gaily,  shaking  the  water 
from  his  tall  hat.  "  The  ladder  has  gone!  " 

She  stared  at  him  blankly.    He  continued: 

"  The  rain  must  needs  have  loosened  a  rock.  It  has 
fallen  on  the  ladder ;  two  lengths  have  gone. ' ' 

Still  she  stared,  within  her  eyes  a  dawning  consciousness 
of  the  gravity  of  their  situation. 

"  Then — then  we  are  prisoners?  " 

"  Ay,  past  question.     'Tis  a  rare  jest!  " 

"  But — we  will  have  to  stay  here  all  night!  " 

His  face  betrayed  that  he  had  not  calculated  upon  that. 

"  You  will  miss  Compline,"  she  continued  nervously. 
"  Yes,  and  the  midnight  services.  The  Abbot  will  be 
vexed.  Ah,  that  sobers  you!  And  moreover  no  one  will 
come  near  this  place.  It  is  haunted." 

He  stood  before  her,  stroking  his  chin. 

"It  is  true,"  he  faltered.  "  I  never  thought  of  that. 
Backsliding  at  all  seasons — God  forgive  me!  But — " 
and  he  regained  his  cheerfulness,  "  be  not  thus  downcast. 
The  good  saints  will  protect  us.  One  holy  saint  can,  an 
he  has  a  mind,  rout  a  multitude  of  devils.  Perhaps  even 
they  will  reveal  unto  us  a  way.  Ah,  the  tower  of  the 
windlass!  " 

Together  they  hastened  to  the  rude  hut  that,  as  in 
Barlaam,  overhung  the  abyss.  One  glance  was  sufficient. 
The  rope  was  rotten. 

"  No  hope  here,"  said  Petros,  chuckling. 

She  flashed  an  indignant  glance  at  him. 

"  One  would  say  you  were  glad!  " 

"  I  am  glad.  Nay,  be  not  angry.  Look  you,  Angelos, 
all  my  life  I  have  earnestly  desired  an  adventure,  so  this 
pleaseth  me  right  well.  'Tis  doubtless  my  vile  nature. 
Brother  Apostoli  says  there  are  seasons  when  I  merit  the 
lowest  depths  of  hell.  He  ought  to  know,  for  God  hath 
revealed  to  him  wondrous  high  matters  in  his  prayers." 
He  wagged  his  head  solemnly,  then  asked:  "  And  you, 
are  you  so  desirous  of  getting  back?  ' 

Her  hasty  negative  made  him  smile. 

"  Then  make  no  more  ado.  'Tis  but  for  one  night. 
The  venerable  father  will  of  a  surety  send  to  seek  us 
when  he  sees  that  we  do  not  return.  After  all,  'tis  not 


160  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

our  fault.  It  was  a  devil  loosened  that  rock,  helped 
thereto  by  the  rain.  And  if  the  fiends  should  come,  have 
we  not  the  Abbot's  cross?  It  exorciseth  mightily.  We 
have  here  no  breviary  wherewith  to  say  matins,  so  God 
will  lovingly  overlook  it  if  we  sleep." 

"  Where?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  voice.  As  she  spoke 
she  cast  a  fearful  glance  towards  the  monastery.  The 
rain  had  ceased.  Under  the  cope  of  night  the  ruins  had 
assumed  an  even  more  ominous  aspect. 

"  In  my  cell,"  he  said,  replying  to  her  question.  "  The 
one  wherein  I  was  wont  to  sleep  when  a  child." 

She  looked  at  him,  her  indignation  gone,  nothing  but 
a  longing  for  sympathy  left.  Something  virile  about  him 
comforted  her  inexpressibly. 

'  *  You  will  not  leave  me, ' '  she  pleaded. 

The  request  slipped  from  her,  almost  unawares.  She 
neither  wondered  at  it,  nor  regretted  it.  Her  sense  of 
dependence  upon  this  young  monk  had  reached  a  new 
stage.  It  now  stirred  her  into  a  troubled  sweetness,  es- 
sentially feminine — the  instinctive  pleasure  which  every 
true  woman  feels  in  being  protected  by  a  man  to  whom 
she  is  not  indifferent. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  the  sunlight  the  dormitory  of  Lavra  would  have 
been  melancholy — in  the  dusk  it  was  depressing  beyond 
words. 

"  That  was  my  father's  cell,"  explained  Petros,  indi- 
cating a  little  door.  "  He  died  there — and  this  " — he 
pointed  to  another — "  was  mine." 

They  entered  the  latter.  Zetitzka  made  out  the  usual 
cubicle,  stripped,  however,  of  all  furniture. 

She  looked  round  disconsolately. 

"  We  will  sleep  on  the  ground,"  continued  Petros, 
"  many  holy  hermits  slept  thus,  Brother  Nicodemus  says  it 
breeds  rheumatism  and  is  highly  acceptable  to  God.  He 
never  does  it  himself.  Come,  let  us  pray  and  then  we  will 
lay  us  down." 

In  the  gloom  she  heard  him  repeat  a  pater  noster,  fol- 
lowed by  a  fervent  petition  to  the  effect  that  they  might 
be  guarded  from  evil  spirits.  She  did  not  join  in  the 
prayer.  Something  in  the  vibrating  masculine  tones  of  his 
voice  disquieted  her  for  the  first  time. 

"  Now,  let  us  sleep,"  said  Petros  with  a  yawn. 

He  stretched  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  floor. 
She,  however,  remained  standing,  strangely  ill  at  ease. 

"  Will  you  not  lay  yourself  down?  "  he  asked  wonder- 
ingly. 

But  still  she  stood,  gazing  at  his  outstretched  form 
under  cover  of  the  dusk.  A  feeling  of  nervousness 
possessed  her,  tying  her  tongue,  and  making  her  acutely 
self-conscious.  What  though  he  imagined  her  a  boy — 
she  knew  him  for  a  man.  And  yet,  under  the  strange 
circumstances  in  which  they  were  placed,  she  could  have 
overlooked  this,  were  it  not  for  a  shrinking  fear  of  the 
morning  and  the  dread  of  discovery.  Hitherto,  in  her 
cell,  with  the  one  exception  of  Sotiri's  intrusion,  she  had 
been  alone,  free  to  perform  unobserved  the  details  of  her 
11  161 


162  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

woman's  toilet;  but  here  no  privacy  would  be  possible. 

"  What  is  it?  "  came  the  drowsy  voice  at  her  feet. 

"  Let  me  go  away,"  she  said  hurriedly,  in  agitated 
tones. 

"  Go  away!" 

"  Yes.     I  will  go  into  the  corridor.    It  is  cooler  there." 

' '  Nonsense !  Have  you  a  mind  to  meet  your  death — to 
speak  naught  of  things  evil  ?  Come,  are  we  not  brothers  ? 
Let  us  sleep  side  by  side  in  love  and  sweet  friendliness." 

The  prospect  embarrassed  her.  She  bit  her  underlip — 
frowned — shrank  into  herself.  Even  his  unconsciousness 
failed  to  restore  her  ease.  A  feeling  of  impatience  at  the 
whims  of  this  unaccountable  youth  ruffled  Petros,  but 
changed  to  good-natured  acquiescence  as  she  muttered  that 
if  he  remained  she  would  be  unable  to  sleep. 

"  As  you  will,"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet,  "  I  go 
to  my  father's  cell." 

But  even  as  he  opened  the  door  there  came  a  swift 
rush  of  wings.  Zetitzka  could  not  tell  whence  it  came, 
but  in  the  hot  darkness  something  cold  and  invisible 
fanned  her  cheek,  stirring  her  hair  and  roughening  her 
skin  with  fear.  She  uttered  an  involuntary  cry. 

"  What  is  it  now?  "  demanded  Petros. 

"  I  don't  know.  It  is — it  is  something  in  the  cell!  I 
am  frightened.  Stay  with  me." 

He  peered  at  her  over  his  shoulder  in  perplexity.  She 
looked  like  the  intangible  form  of  a  wistful  and  perverse 
spirit. 

"  I  can  make  naught  of  you,"  he  grumbled.  "  At  one 
moment  'tis  '  Go,'  and  the  next  '  Stay.'  Do  you  know 
your  own  mind?  " 

»  N— o— o." 
'  Then  how  may  I  know  it?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  talk!  'Just  come  back."  Then,  as  he  hesi- 
tated, "  Has  it  gone?  Shut  the  door  quickly,  or  it  may 
come  in  again." 

He  obeyed  her  reluctantly.  The  door  once  closed,  a 
sense  of  security  caused  her  to  breathe  freely. 

A  last  glimmer  of  light  struggled  downwards  from  the 
little  window  above  their  heads,  for  the  storm  was  over 
and  the  sky  was  clearing  fast.  After  a  few  desultory 
efforts,  conversation  languished. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  163 

From  her  voice,  Petros  could  tell  that  she  was  drowsy. 
He,  on  the  contrary,  became  every  moment  more  wide 
awake.  Noting  that  she  had  sunk  to  the  ground,  he 
stretched  himself  beside  her,  and  tried  vainly  to  woo 
sleep  by  repeating  a  prayer  associated  with  his  father. 

Disquieting  thoughts  came  to  him  as  he  lay  open-eyed 
in  the  darkness.  Accustomed  only  to  profound  silence, 
or  to  noises  so  muffled  as  to  be  unimportant,  Petros  found 
himself  listening  intently  to  her  breathing,  and  to  her 
uneasy  movements  as  she  sought  relief  from  the  hard- 
ness of  the  floor.  Never  before  had  he  slept  in  the  same 
cell  with  anyone,  not  even  with  his  father,  and  he  vowed 
with  determination  that  he  never  would  again.  To  know 
his  companion  so  close  that  he  had  only  to  put  out  a 
hand  in  order  to  touch  her,  was  distracting.  To  calm 
his  thoughts  he  concentrated  his  mind  upon  the  icon  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  his  favourite  among  all  the  icons  in 
the  Catholicon,  and  now  separated  from  him  by  so  great 
a  space  of  benighted  road,  but  other  thoughts  thrust 
themselves  forward.  He  could  not  tell  what  they  were, 
for  rather  were  they  feelings  than  ideas,  but  none  the  less 
perturbing  on  that  account.  Had  he  been  alone  he  would 
have  risen  and  prayed  aloud,  but  the  fear  of  awakening 
his  companion  kept  him  motionless.  The  idea,  that  per- 
haps, after  all,  the  devils  had  entered  the  cell,  came  to  him 
in  a  sudden  rush  of  terror,  causing  him  to  shut  his  eyes 
tightly  in  case  he  might  see  them.  After  repeating  every 
prayer  appropriate  to  the  occasion  which  he  could  call  to 
mind,  he  cautiously  looked  around.  Only  darkness, 
broken  by  the  faint  pallor  of  light  from  the  window.  He 
listened  intently.  Only  silence,  caressed  rather  than 
ruffled  by  the  gentle  intaking  and  outgiving  of  Zetitzka's 
breath.  The  peaceful  somnolent  sounds  calmed  his  fears, 
but  awoke  a  sensation  of  loneliness.  He  had  never  felt 
it  before  to  quite  the  same  extent.  Her  propinquity, 
added  to  her  state  of  oblivion,  made  this  feeling  unbear- 
able. He  longed  for  her  to  speak,  to  give  him  the  comfort 
of  conscious  human  companionship.  But  the  soft  sounds 
continued  without  intermission. 

Of  a  sudden  he  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"  Angelos,"  he  whispered. 

No  answer.    Zetitzka  was  far  away  in  a  land  of  dreams. 


164  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

He  put  out  a  hand  to  touch  her,  then  slowly  dre-^  it 
back.  "  Nay,"  he  thought,  "  it  would  be  right  selfish  to 
disturb  him. ' ' 

Standing  erect,  he  flung  out  his  arms,  taking  care,  how- 
ever, to  make  no  noise,  then  turning  slowly  went  out  into 
the  corridor. 

The  night  was  charged  with  electricity.  It  steeped  the 
senses  of  the  young  monk  in  a  soft  and  enervating  languor. 
It  deepened  also  the  emotional  mood  that,  like  the  vague 
unrest  of  spring  when  April  is  at  hand,  throbbed  and 
tingled  in  his  blood. 

A  night  of  forbidden  dreams!  The  world  sought  to 
tempt  him.  It  was  robed  in  beauty,  alluring  in  its 
mystery.  The  cliffs  shone  in  the  starlight,  like  wan  faces 
watching  him  above  the  gloom  of  the  gorges.  A  great 
planet  glowed  like  a  jewel  on  the  dusky  bosom  of  night. 
The  distance  had  ceased  to  be  the  plain  and  the  river  he 
knew  so  well.  It  too  had  allied  itself  with  the  powers  of 
darkness,  and  was  now  naught  but  a  temptation  whisper- 
ing of  something  he  felt,  but  could  not  put  into  words — a 
something  which  he  vaguely  feared  was  evil. 

With  all  his  might  Petros  sought  to  banish  the  emotions 
that  beset  him,  but  in  an  environment  so  favourable  they 
flourished  and  grew  apace.  He  was  filled  with  unrest, 
saddened  with  longing.  The  latter  troubled  him  the  most, 
though  for  what  he  longed  he  knew  not. 

His  ignorance  added  immeasurably  to  his  trouble.  It 
was  like  fighting  a  foe  in  the  dark.  All  knowledge  of  life 
had  been  purposely  withheld  from  him  by  his  father,  and 
later  by  the  monks.  He  had  been  of  so  tender  an  age  when 
first  he  had  joined  the  monastery  that  the  brethren,  with 
a  delicacy  that  did  them  credit,  had  taken  a  pleasure  in 
keeping  him  in  the  happy  ignorance  of  childhood.  Nature 
had  sought  to  enlighten  him,  as  Nature  will,  but  her  un- 
aided efforts,  instead  of  explaining  the  mystery,  but  added 
to  his  bewilderment.  He  had  carried  his  difficulties  to 
the  Abbot  in  the  hour  of  confession,  but  the  aged  priest, 
to  whom  this  young  soul,  white  and  unspotted,  was  a 
something  beautiful  amid  the  contagion  of  the  world,  had 
contented  himself  with  teaching  the  boy  to  combat  all 
incomprehensible  emotions  by  prayer.  To  himself  the 
Abbot  murmured : — ' '  Not  yet,  not  yet,  time  enough  to 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  165 

tell  him  when  he  is  older.  Yet,  if  only  I  could  keep  him 
ever  thus!  In  blessed  innocence.  Holy  Mother  of  God, 
what  a  victory !  What  a  perfect  pearl  for  thy  crown !  ' ' 

As  he  stood  there  in  the  darkness,  leaning  against  the 
worn  coping-stones  of  what  had  once  been  a  parapet,  it 
came  to  Petros  suddenly,  with  the  sinister  exaggeration 
of  fears  born  in  the  night,  that  he  must  be  intensely 
wicked;  not  merely  with  the  wickedness  common  to 
humanity,  but  of  a  heart  given  over  to  depravity,  of  a 
soul  lost,  abandoned.  The  hot  night  seemed  full  of  devils, 
as  though  the  spirit  of  darkness  hovered  overhead  with 
invisible  bat-like  wings.  The  world  upon  which  he  looked 
down,  as  a  sailor  from  the  mast-head  might  gaze  upon  a 
mysterious  sea,  seemed  the  veiled  form  of  evil,  of  which 
the  stars  were  the  eyes,  cold,  vigilant,  malevolent.  He 
was  alone,  terribly  alone,  warring  not  only  with  the  ex- 
ternal and  invisible  spectres  of  his  imagination,  but  with 
himself,  with  his  traitor  heart  that  had  laid  siege  to  the 
peaceful  citadel  of  his  soul.  Horrified  at  his  wickedness, 
he  fell  to  praying  aloud,  repeating  instinctively  the  prayer 
set  down  in  the  penance  called  the  canon: — 

"  Lord  SJesu  Christ,  Son  of  the  living  God,  have  mercy 
on  me!  "  At  every  repetition  he  abased  himself  towards 
the  ruined  Catholicon. 

The  moon  circled  above  the  monastery,  steeping  every- 
thing in  silver  witchery.  To  Petros  it  seemed  like  God's 
own  smile — a  visible  answer  to  prayer.  Uplifted  in  spirit, 
but  still  vaguely  disquieted  in  mind,  he  again  sought  his 
cell. 

He  paused  upon  the  threshold.  It  was  as  if  a  trans- 
formation had  taken  place  during  his  absence.  He  had 
left  it  dark — he  now  beheld  it  bright.  Moonlight  streamed 
inwards  through  the  little  window.  It  formed  a  broad 
shaft  of  radiance  that  fell  upon  the  floor  and  upon  the 
sleeping  form  of  Zetitzka.  All  else  was  vague,  shadowy, 
obscured  into  unimportance.  Only  the  sleeper  stood  out 
bathed  in  a  wonderful  white  light — the  one  important 
thing  in  the  cell.  She  lay  in  the  limp  abandonment  of 
sleep — on  her  back — her  head  pillowed  on  one  round  bare 
arm.  She  looked  peaceful — almost  happy;  for  sleep  by 
touching  away  a  line  of  care,  had  given  back  to  her  some- 
what of  the  untroubled  expression  of  her  girlhood.  The 


166  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

moonlight  etherealised  her  comeliness,  brushed  with  silver 
the  curves  of  her  shapely  figure.  The  fringe  of  her  long 
lashes  lay  upon  her  cheeks,  and  soft  through  parted  lips 
came  the  breath  of  dreamless  slumber.  Above  all  things 
she  looked  intensely  feminine.  No  longer  upon  her  guard, 
everything  about  her  whispered  of  the  woman. 

Petros  gazed  in  silence — holding  his  breath.  Could  this 
be  Angelos,  the  lay  brother!  Very  slowly  he  approached 
her,  taking  care  to  make  no  noise.  Why  he  did  so  he 
knew  not;  obeying,  it  would  seem,  some  instinct  of  which 
he  was  unaware.  When  he  was  come  within  a  couple  of 
yards,  he  stopped  suddenly. 

In  the  hot  night,  unfastened  doubtless  by  some  restless 
movement  of  the  sleeper,  the  breast  of  her  lay  brother's 
tunic  had  fallen  open.  Upon  this  the  eyes  of  the  boy 
were  riveted.  Through  the  black  rift  of  the  dingy  gar- 
ment, white  in  the  moonlight,  shone  the  pure  soft  outlines 
of  her  woman's  form. 

Petros  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.     The  expression  in 

his  eyes  passed  slowly  from  incredulity  to  horror.     For 

awhile  he  stood  trembling,  fascinated,  impotent  to  avert 

his  gaze.     Then,  of  a  sudden,  the  girl  moved,  and  as  if 

et  free  from  a  spell  he  fled  from  her  presence. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ZETITZKA  awoke  and  rubbed  her  eyes.  For  a  moment, 
imagining  herself  at  Barlaam,  the  fear  that  she  had  over- 
slept beset  her.  But  her  surroundings  speedily  pointed 
out  her  mistake. 

In  the  cold  grey  light  the  cell  stood  revealed  in  all 
its  nudity.  Its  only  redeeming  quality  was  the  glimpse 
it  gave  of  the  world  without — the  glint  of  pale  blue  sky 
seen  through  the  broken  window. 

As  she  sat  up  the  girl's  eye  fell  upon  evidences  of 
Petros — the  empty  wallet  in  which  they  had  carried  their 
provisions,  and  the  cloak  of  the  young  monk,  disarranged, 
as  though  hastily  flung  aside  when  he  awoke  from  sleep. 
These  proofs  that  a  man  had  shared  her  cell,  had  actually 
slept  beside  her  all  night,  struck  Zetitzka  with  sudden 
consternation.  For  the  first  time  she  realised  the  enormity 
of  the  situation.  In  the  darkness  it  had  seemed  only 
natural  that  he  should  stay  and  protect  her,  but  in  the 
uncompromising  light  of  day  it  assumed  monstrous  pro- 
portions. 

With  a  sudden  guilty  start  she  remembered  how  she 
had  entreated  him  to  remain  with  her,  and  at  the  remem- 
brance she  became  one  burning  blush  from  head  to  foot. 
Was  ever  anything  so  improper,  so  indelicate,  done  by  a 
girl  before?  What  had  he  thought  of  her?  What  did  he 
think  now?  And  then,  with  an  immense  insurgence  of 
relief,  she  recollected  that  she  need  not  feel  ashamed,  for 
in  his  eyes  she  was  but  a  boy. 

She  was  thankful  that  he  had  quitted  the  cell  before 
she  awoke,  but  she  wondered  where  he  had  gone.  Per- 
haps, she  reflected,  to  the  Catholicon  to  pray. 

As  her  sleep-bemused  mind  picked  up  one  by  one  the 
loosened  threads  of  existence,  there  came  again  the 
memory  of  Barlaam  and  of  Stephanos.  It  was  as  if  a 
black  cloud  had  driven  suddenly  between  her  and  the  sun. 

167 


168  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

So,  this  short  holiday  was  nearly  over!  In  a  few  hours 
at  most  the  dull  dead  weight  of  the  monastery  and  of  her 
mission  would  press  again  upon  every  moment  of  her 
life. 

But  bravely  fighting  her  depression,  she  reminded  her- 
self that  she  could  still  count  upon  a  brief  period  of  respite 
— that  all  had  gone  well — that  her  secret  was  still  her  own. 
With  a  feeling  almost  akin  to  self -congratulation,  she 
rose  to  her  feet. 

Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  little  cell,  she  carried 
her  arms  above  her  head,  her  hands  seeking  for  the  long 
hair  that  used  to  fall  in  profusion  about  her  shoulders. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  that  force  of  long  habit  had 
deceived  her.  Again  the  cropped  tresses  reminded  her 
that  the  massive  and  shining  coils  that  had  adorned  her 
head  were  now  lying  concealed  among  the  rocks.  Recol- 
lection brought  with  it  regret  for  the  uselessness  of  the 
sacrifice.  Deep  in  her  inmost  being  the  spirit  of  undying 
coquetry  awoke,  whispering  to  her  that  had  she  not  thus 
robbed  herself  of  her  chief  beauty,  she  might  still  have 
been  attractive.  But  even  as  the  echo  of  this  idea  made 
itself  heard,  instinctive  and  primitive,  not  so  much  hers 
as  that  of  countless  dead  women  speaking  through  her,  she 
blushed  again,  answering  a  thought  that  scarcely  existed, 
with  all  the  innocent  consciousness  of  a  child. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  so  intense  that  Zetitzka 
caught  herself  listening  for  some  faint  indication  of 
monastic  life;  then  she  smiled  as  she  called  to  mind  that 
all  the  inmates  were  dead,  ages  long  ago,  and  that  she  and 
Petros  were  the  only  living  souls  upon  the  pinnacle-top. 

The  wind  breathed  gently  upon  her  through  the  open 
window.  Its  purity  spoke  of  the  heights,  and  its  freshness 
of  the  dawn.  Moving  softly,  she  folded  her  companion's 
cloak,  then  sought  to  make  a  scanty  toilet,  though  the 
denuded  cell  supplied  nothing  that  could  assist  her,  not 
even  a  basin  wherein  to  wash.  Observing  that  her  tunic 
was  unfastened,  she  buttoned  it  hastily.  In  all  her  ac- 
tions there  was  a  deftness,  a  silent  celerity,  that  told  of 
one  naturally  neat-handed.  She  move  noiselessly,  almost 
stealthily,  as  though  she  feared  to  awaken  the  echoes,  and 
at  times  she  paused  again  to  listen,  her  head  slightly  on 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  169 

one  side.    Before  she  quitted  the  cell  she  fell  on  her  knees 
and  prayed. 

Prayer  came  more  easily  that  morning.  Ever  since  her 
arrival  at  Barlaam  prayer  had  seemed  a  mockery.  How 
could  she  approach  a  God  whose  name  was  Love,  with  noth- 
ing but  hate  in  her  heart?  But  now  a  gentler  mood  had 
come  to  her ;  a  wish  to  draw  near  to  God ;  a  desire  to  live 
at  peace  with  all  men.  Absent  from  Barlaam,  the  load 
of  her  wrongs  seemed  to  press  less  heavily.  With  an  in- 
stinctive shrinking  she  felt  that  they  were  only  awaiting 
her  return,  but  for  the  moment  she  strove  to  banish  them 
from  her  mind,  and  succeeded  beyond  anticipation.  En- 
couraging kindly  thoughts,  she  included  the  names  of 
Petros  and  the  Abbot  in  her  prayers.  Then,  with  peace 
in  her  heart,  she  stepped  lightly  into  the  corridor. 

The  sun,  barely  above  the  ruined  buildings,  sparkled 
upon  the  water  that  lay  in  pools  between  the  displaced 
flagstones.  It  winked  a  merry  eye  from  the  metal  ball 
that  topped  the  dome  of  the  Catholicon,  it  danced  hither 
and  thither,  flinging  jewels  of  light  over  trodden  weed 
and  trembled  blossom,  turning  the  courtyard  into  a  garden 
and  the  cloisters  into  a  palace. 

Already  the  heat  fought  with  the  freshness  of  the  sum- 
mer dawn.  A  haze,  filmy  as  wafted  gossamer,  quivered 
along  the  summits  of  the  broken  walls.  Far  off,  seen 
through  gaps  in  the  ruined  masonry,  the  river  and  the 
hills  seemed  still  to  slumber,  dreaming  dreams  that  fell 
from  the  blue  of  the  sky. 

Zetitzka's  nature  responded  joyously  to  the  beauty  and 
the  brightness.  She  was  young  enough  still  to  float 
buoyantly  on  the  tide  of  hope — the  tide  that  ebbs  in  later 
life  and  leaves  us  stranded  on  the  shores  of  time.  The 
softened  feelings  in  her  heart  centred  themselves  on  Petros. 
Thoughts  of  him  stirred  feelings  of  glad  anticipation— 
and  yet  for  the  moment  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  join  him. 
It  was  enough  to  know  he  was  there — her  friend — a  sure 
ally  in  case  of  danger.  Still  semi-dreaming,  she  took 
pleasure  in  recalling  facts  connected  with  him;  things  he 
had  said ;  his  laugh ;  his  expression  when  under  excitement ; 
his  sunny  nature,  that  seemed  to  have  drawn  to  itself  all 
that  made  life  joyous.  A  sigh  broke  from  her.  His 


170  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

memory  filled  her  with  wistful  regret,  with  an  envy  that 
was  free  from  all  covetousness.  Life  to  him  was  still  a 
white  unwritten  page;  to  her  it  was  already  defaced  by  a 
black  and  shameful  experience.  A  gulf  lay  between 
them,  yet  her  feelings  overleaped  it.  The  law  of  nature 
that  commands  that  opposites  be  drawn  to  opposites  had 
unconsciously  influenced  both.  He  had  instinctively  felt 
attracted  by  her  air  of  reticent  experience — she  by  his  en- 
gaging candour  and  simplicity.  The  young  man  and  the 
young  woman  had  gravitated  towards  each  other  as 
naturally  and  inevitably  as  youth  is  allured  by  youth,  and 
laughter  is  rendered  responsive  by  laughter. 

Yet  always  Zetitzka  felt  immeasurably  the  elder,  de- 
spite his  two  or  three  years  of  seniority.  To  her  he  seemed 
still  a  child,  the  more  so  on  account  of  his  airs  of  boyish 
dogmatism  and  fancied  knowledge  of  the  world. 

As  she  stood  in  the  early  sunlight,  with  the  monastery 
basking  around  her,  she  drew  the  bright  morning  into  her 
blood,  exquisitely  alive  to  all  the  sweet  communicable  in- 
fluences of  nature.  And  it  seemed  indeed  as  if  the  be- 
neficent and  immortal  spirits — called  by  mortal  names  of 
sun  and  breeze — were  graciously  aware  of  the  unconscious 
worship  in  the  girl 's  heart,  for  they  hovered  over  her  like  a 
flutter  of  imminent  wings,  gilding  her  blue-black  curls  and 
stirring  her  garment 's  hem.  It  might  well  be,  for  they  had 
seen  nothing  fairer  than  her  face,  fresh  as  the  dawn  and 
full  of  quiet  reflected  brightness  as  the  blue  overhead — 
a  presence  strangely  sweet  amid  the  ruins  of  Lavra. 

All  at  once  the  intense  solitude  of  the  place  made  her 
conscious  of  loneliness.  Feeling  that  she  had  but  to  find 
Petros  to  have  this  sensation  dispelled,  she  ran  towards 
the  ruined  Catholicon.  He  was  not  there.  She  called 
aloud,  but  her  clear  girlish  voice  was  answered  only  by 
lugubrious  echoes.  With  a  growing  anxiety,  which  she 
strove  in  vain  to  repress,  she  searched  the  cloisters,  the 
refectory,  and  the  various  buildings  that  huddled  on  the 
small  restricted  summit.  All  were  desolate,  voiceless. 
Thoroughly  alarmed  now,  she  hastened  towards  the  preci- 
pice that  concealed  the  ladders.  A  rope  made  fast  to  a 
post  caught  her  attention.  It  dangled  in  space,  forming 
a  connecting  link  between  the  monastery  and  the  unin- 
jured portion  of  the  ladders  full  forty  feet  below.  Zetitzka 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  171 

gazed  at  it  in  bewilderment.  Petros  had  spoken  of  no 
rope!  She  knew  for  certain  that  it  had  not  been  there 
on  the  preceding  night.  Then,  in  a  flash,  the  truth  struck 
her.  Petros  had  put  it  there!  He  had  escaped  by  itl 
She  was  alone  in  Lavra! 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AN  hour  later  Dimitri,  preceded  by  Nikola,  fared 
leisurely  up  the  path  that  led  past  the  base  of  Lavra. 
The  muleteer  took  a  fearful  pleasure  in  tempting  Provi- 
dence by  choosing  a  track  whereon  few  villagers  would 
travel.  This  he  did  partly  to  shock  the  neighbours,  and 
partly — as  he  himself  expressed  it — "  for  fun."  Be  it 
noted,  however,  that  he  chose  sunrise  and  not  nightfall  for 
the  adventure. 

He  cast  a  glance  at  the  ruins  as  he  approached.  But 
overhead  nothing  stirred.  Desolate  as  of  old,  Lavra 
frowned  into  the  summer  sky. 

Suddenly  Dimitri  halted.  A  look  of  excitement  over- 
spread his  bronzed  face.  He  had  caught  sight  of  the 
broken  ladder.  Before  he  had  time  to  recover  from  his 
surprise,  something  lying  athwart  the  path  attracted  his 
attention.  It  looked,  he  thought,  uncommonly  like  a 
human  body — a  remarkable  object  anywhere;  but  here, 
distinctly  uncanny.  Dimitri  was  perturbed  into  making 
the  sign  of  the  cross. 

The  more  phlegmatic  Nikola  plodded  forward.  With 
sudden  shame  at  his  indecision  her  master  made  haste  to 
follow  her  example.  When  he  came  near,  he  saw  to  his 
astonishment  that  the  body,  was  that  of  Angelos,  the  lay 
brother. 

Quite  unconscious,  Zetitzka  lay  at  the  base  of  the  lad- 
ders. There  was  an  inert  pathetic  abandonment  in  the 
apparently  boyish  figure  clad  in  dingy  grey,  lying  there 
to  all  intents  lifeless,  as  though  already  a  clod,  one  with 
the  stones,  the  cliffs,  and  all  the  inanimate  fabric  of  the 
revolving  earth.  She  lay  partly  on  her  side,  one  arm 
extended,  the  fingers  of  the  outstretched  hand  still 
tenaciously  grasping  the  rotten  rung — doubtless  the  im- 
mediate cause  of  the  disaster.  Her  head,  from  which  the 
lay  brother's  cap  had  fallen,  was  tilted  back,  revealing 

172 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  173 

a  scalp  wound  above  the  right  ear.  The  latter  had  bled 
freely.  The  vivid  red,  scarcely  dry,  contrasted  with  the 
jetty  blackness  of  her  hair  and  the  death-like  pallor  of  her 
face. 

Dimitri  looked  at  her  with  bent  brows,  then  gazed  up- 
wards at  the  monastery.  Many  questions  suggested  them- 
selves, but  no  answers.  The  muleteer  was  aroused  from 
the  puzzle  by  the  sound  of  Nikola  sniffing  curiously  at  the 
girl's  face. 

"Sacred  name!"  he  ejaculated,  in  sudden  self-con- 
demnation. "  I  stand  here  gaping  while  the  lad  bleeds  to 
death !  "  Then,  with  a  resounding  smack  on  the  grey  hind- 
quarters, "  Out  of  the  way,  old  lady!  " 

Kneeling  by  her  side,  he  ran  his  fingers  tentatively  over 
her  limbs.  Suddenly  his  hands  fell  limply  to  his  sides. 
With  a  new  interest,  at  once  breathless  and  absorbed,  he 
gazed  into  her  face.  It  was  upturned  to  his,  the  eyelids 
closed,  the  mouth  quiet;  but  for  its  whiteness  and  the 
blood-encrusted  hair,  it  might  have  been  the  face  of  one 
asleep.  -The  muleteer's  eyes  strayed  from  her  face  to  her 
figure.  For  a  while  he  gazed  at  her,  like  a  man  over- 
whelmed by  an  impossible  idea,  yet  not  so  much  incredulous 
as  bewildered.  Mechanically  he  took  her  hand.  It  lay  in 
his — limp,  small,  brown,  hardened  by  work,  yet  not  without 
a  certain  feminine  delicacy.  Dimitri  drew  a  long  breath, 
then  slowly  nodded  comprehension. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  did  not  again 
touch  her.  When  she  showed  signs  of  returning  conscious- 
ness, he  moved  discreetly  to  a  little  distance.  Languidly 
she  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Where  am  I?  "  The  mountain  dialect  came  naturally 
to  her  lips.  Dimitri  was  watching  her  intently. 

"  You  have  had  a  fall,"  he  said  in  Greek. 

Zetitzka  looked  at  him,  almost,  he  thought,  as  though  she 
did  not  see  him,  then  gazed  helplessly  at  the  ruins  over- 
head, at  the  broken  ladder  by  her  side,  and,  far  up  the 
cliff,  at  the  dangling  rope.  She  tried  to  sit  up. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  and  fainted. 

When  she  again  recovered  consciousness  she  found  her- 
self  lying  on  a  cloak.  A  space  had  been  cleared  for  her 
among  the  stones.  She  noted  these  things  in  the  listless 
indifferent  fashion  of  a  person  recovering  from  an  illness. 


174  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Her  head  gave  her  great  pain ;  she  felt,  also,  unaccountably 
weak.  But  these  physical  sensations  were  as  nothing  com- 
pared with  her  distress  of  mind.  Some  black  cloud  over- 
shadowed her.  She  tried  to  recall  it,  but  it  eluded  memory. 
And  yet  it  must  be  something  horrible  and  imminent,  such 
a  shadow  of  depression  darkened  her  spirits.  Curiously 
enough,  it  was  the  thought  of  her  child  that  started  the 
rapid  and  illuminating  train  of  ideas  that  swept  her  on- 
wards to  the  moment  of  her  accident.  Never  before,  save 
once,  had  she  felt  so  helpless,  weak,  and  abandoned — the 
victim  of  a  fate  that  beat  her  down  with  reiterated  and 
cruel  blows. 

She  was  alone.  In  all  this  grey  world  of  rocks  and 
frowning  cliffs,  not  a  sound,  not  a  movement.  She  lay 
in  the  shadow  of  Lavra.  At  a  distance  of  a  few  yards 
she  could  see  where  the  path  wound,  glaring  white  in  the 
pitiless  sunshine,  and  up  and  beyond  to  where  the  ser- 
rated outline  of  cliffs  gnawed  at  the  oppressive  and  sinister 
splendour  of  the  sky.  The  heat  was  on  the  increase. 
The  rocks  that  were  already  submerged  flung  it  off  like 
the  breath  of  a  furnace.  It  weighed  on  the  heart  and 
withered  all  impulses  of  strength  and  energy.  The  whole 
scene,  with  its  entire  absence  of  life,  saturated  in  sunlight, 
and  brooded  over  by  profound  silence,  seemed  unreal  as  a 
phantom  landscape,  or  an  uninhabited  planet  wheeling  its 
lonely  way  through  space  in  a  fulgor  of  eternal  sunshine. 

Dim  memories  of  a  man,  seen  like  a  vision  upon  the 
first  opening  of  her  eyelids,  came  to  Zetitzka  as  she  lay 
sunk  in  stupor.  Where  was  he?  She  did  not  care.  He 
had  gone.  Yet  how  to  account  for  the  cloak,  a  coarse 
brown  garment  which  she  could  see  with  her  heavy,  list- 
less eyes  without  turning  her  head? 

These  and  other  questions  forced  themselves  upon  her, 
vaguely,  indefinitely,  almost  as  though  they  concerned  some- 
one else,  and  yet  the  effort  to  answer  them  was  beyond 
her. 

She  made  no  effort  to  rouse  herself.  She  knew  that 
some  time  she  must  go — but  not  yet.  She  did  not  care. 
What  worse  thing  could  happen  to  her?  And,  moreover, 
when  she  tried  to  move,  her  right  ankle  gave  her  such 
pain  that  she  was  glad  to  lie  still.  She  wondered  with  in- 
difference if  it  were  broken. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  175 

Sfie  wondered,  too,  with  equal  indifference  what  would 
become  of  her,  of  the  Zetitzka  who  had  made  such  a  mess 
of  life,  whom  no  one  wanted  ?  Despairing  thoughts  chased 
each  other  through  her  feverish  brain.  She  seemed  to 
have  sounded  the  deeps  of  life,  to  have  reached  the  butt- 
end  where  she  must  crawl  to  die,  to  have  tasted  the  ulti- 
mate sorrow  that  lay  at  the  heart  of  the  world.  Her  re- 
cuperative energy — hers  in  common  with  all  young  things 
— had  been,  as  it  were,  suspended  for  the  moment  by  this 
final  catastrophe — the  desertion  of  Petros  and  the  shock 
of  the  fall.  She  felt  as  though  nothing  could  touch  her 
now. 

A  sound  roused  her — approaching  footsteps.  A  man 
came  into  sight  carrying  a  tin  can,  evidently  full,  for  his 
care  lest  he  should  spill  its  contents  was  visible. 

His  eyes,  meeting  hers,  betrayed  a  comical  mixture  of 
anxiety,  relief,  and  self-reproach. 

*'  You  are  better!  "  he  cried.  "  I  had  to  go  far.  These 
rocks,  look  you,  no  water.  Drink  this ;  'twill  do  you  good. 
It  should  be  brandy;  but  I  have  not  even  wine  to-day — 
nothing  but  oil." 

He  held  it  to  her  white  lips,  and  seemed  disappointed 
that  she  could  sip  so  little.  Without  interest,  without 
curiosity,  Zetitzka  noticed  details  about  this  man — noticed 
them  in  spite  of  herself,  for  they  made  but  little  impres- 
sion upon  her  bruised  and  deadened  brain.  He  had  a 
strong,  good-looking,  sunburnt  face,  with  something  reliable 
in  it.  His  picturesque  costume  struck  a  not  unfamiliar 
note.  The  white  of  his  kilted  fustinella  spoke  to  her  un- 
consciously of  the  mountains;  while  the  scarlet  of  his 
sash,  wooing  her  eye  with  a  sensation  of  brightness,  essayed 
to  lift  her  mentally  into  a  region  of  colourful  things 
suggestive  of  a  world  far  removed  from  this  great  de- 
pressing chaos  of  rocks.  But  wearily  she  closed  her  eyes. 

"  You  have  forgotten  me,"  he  said.  Then,  with  an 
evident  wish  to  be  recalled  to  mind:  "  In  Barlaam,  last 
Monday.  Dimitri,  yes.  By  the  Lord!  'twas  fortunate  I 
came  this  way." 

He  seated  himself  by  her  side.  She  remembered  him 
now.  But  he  seemed  different  from  the  man  she  had 
spoken  to  in  the  court  of  Barlaam.  There  he  had  been 
bluff,  rollicking,  almost  arrogant  in  his  air  of  virile  health 


176  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

and  strength;  but  here  he  was  subdued,  unaccountably 
gentle.  She  attributed  the  change  to  her  accident,  and  for 
the  first  time  felt  a  slight  warmth  of  gratitude. 

Meanwhile  he  was  tearing  a  coloured  handkerchief  into 
strips  and  talking  softly — a  soliloquy,  independent  of 
answers.  That  wound,  by  the  saints.  R-r-rrp!  went  the 
handkerchief.  He  would  try  not  to  hurt.  R-r-rrp ! 
What  was  the  good  of  a  handkerchief  he  never  used? 
Could  the  head  be  raised  ?  Oh,  the  least  thing !  Confound 
his  fingers.  Strapping  a  pack-saddle  was  more  in  their 
line.  What !  the  ankle  too  ?  There,  how  was  that  ?  Why, 
he  was  prepared  to  wager  Nikola  against  a  brass  nail 
that  things  looked  better  already. 

Zetitzka  scarcely  heard  him.  She  gave  herself  up  to  the 
unusual  feeling  of  being  waited  on.  When  he  had  finished, 
she  tried  to  thank  him,  but  her  lips  trembled.  Touched 
by  his  kindness,  and  prompted  by  his  evident  curiosity — 
which  shone  naively  through  his  stout  assertions  that  he 
did  not  want  to  know — she  endeavoured  to  relate  the  mis- 
adventure. 

"  You — you  came  down  that  rope!  "  he  cried  in  amaze- 
ment. Her  account  seemed  to  make  the  feat  more  real, 
yet  more  impossible.  At  her  answer  his  expression  of 
blank  incredulity  changed  to  one  of  bewilderment. 
Greatly  mystified,  he  sought  relief  in  scratching  his  thick 
crop  of  hair ;  but  the  exercise  brought  him  no  nearer  a  solu- 
tion. Doubts  beset  him.  Not  that  he  doubted  her  word: 
it  was  impossible  to  listen  and  disbelieve.  But  the  whole 
insoluble  mystery  of  her  presence  weighed  upon  him. 

He  looked  long  at  her  with  unusual  self-consciousness; 
for,  unused  to  dissimulation,  it  needed  continual  effort  to 
feign  ignorance  of  her  sex.  He  wondered  what  her  age 
might  be.  She  looked  extraordinarily  young  in  that 
monastic  costume:  he  surmised  she  might  be  on  the  verge 
of  twenty. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  the  impropriety  of  the  adven- 
ture struck  him.  Petros  and  this  fine-looking  girl  up  there 
alone  all  night.  Dimitri's  blue  eyes  twinkled.  And  her 
stay  in  the  monastery  ?  Barlaam !  Where  women  were 
looked  upon  as  incarnations  of  the  evil  one  ?  Again  Dimi- 
tri  suppressed  a  chuckle.  But  his  unworthy  suspicions 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  177 

were  put  to  ignominious  flight  by  the  innocent  candour  in 
her  face. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  cried,  as  though  answering  a  re- 
mark. "  'Tis  none  of  my  business.  Name  of  a  Saint! 
you  carry  God's  truth  in  your  eyes.  And  I  who 
thought — "  he  spat  with  vehement  self -contempt,  then, 
glancing  at  her  penitently — "  Devil  take  me,  I  always 
think  evil  of  others — that  is  because  I  am  like  that  my- 
self. But  I  have  a  heart  " — he  thumped  that  organ  with 
unnecessary  violence — ' '  yes,  a  heart  that  is  sensible ;  it 
likes  you;  you  have  courage." 

Zetitzka  replied  faintly  that  it  was  nothing,  that  any 
boy  would  have  done  the  same. 

Dimitri  stared.  But  all  he  said  was :  "  Well,  what  is  to 
be  done  now?  " 

What  was  to  be  done?  The  world  was  so  wide,  and 
yet  there  was  nowhere  to  go.  The  only  two  places  she 
knew — her  home  and  the  monastery — were  closed  to  her. 
Petros  had  discovered  her  secret.  She  was  sure  of  that — 
his  sudden  flight,  her  intuition,  her  guilty  conscience,  all 
pointed  unmistakably  to  the  fact.  Only  too  well  she  knew 
his  feelings  about  women.  She  could  never  go  back  to 
the  monastery. 

For  the  first  time,  in  spite  of  her  suffering,  she  realised 
how  dependent  she  had  become  upon  the  comradeship  and 
support  of  this  boy.  She  saw  now  that  had  he  not  been 
there  she  would  have  left  long  ago,  probably  after  her 
second  failure  to  fulfill  her  promise  to  her  parents.  That 
she  dared  not  go  home  seemed  to  make  no  difference.  She 
tried  to  imagine  Barlaam — the  friendship  of  Petros  changed 
into  aversion.  The  prospect  appalled  her.  It  would  be 
bad  enough  now  even  if  he  kept  her  secret.  But  would 
he?  She  had  no  reason  for  imagining  it.  He  was  one 
with  the  monastery  in  every  word  and  action,  as  much  as 
a  limb  is  one  with  the  body.  It  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  he  would  keep  silent.  He  had  the  start  of  her  by 
several  hours.  The  chances  were  that  by  this  time  he  had 
told  all.  Her  imagination  shrank  from  the  scene  it  con- 
jured up,  the  whole  place  in  a  ferment,  seething,  furious, 
thirsting  to  avenge  the  sacrilege.  No!  A  thousand  times 
no!  She  could  never  go  back  to  the  monastery. 
12 


178  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Apart  from  anxiety  about  her  future,  she  was  con- 
scious of  acute  personal  disappointment,  as  if  she  had 
irretrievably  lost  something  dear  to  her.  How,  she  asked 
herself,  had  Petros  found  it  in  his  heart  to  desert  her? 
She  did  not  blame  him — she  only  sorrowed.  It  brought 
home  to  her  how  much  this  bright-faced  lad  had  become  to 
her.  She  had  imagined  that  she  cared  for  him  only  as  a 
prop,  but  she  now  discovered  that  what  she  felt  lay  deeper 
than  that — and  she  was  right,  for  the  tie  that  bound  her 
to  him  was  the  reliance  which  a  sincere,  staunch,  and  reti- 
cent nature  reposes  upon  the  loyalty  of  a  friend.  This 
discovery  took  her  by  surprise,  and  a  great  inarticulate 
sadness  welled  up  in  her  heart,  and  became  visible  in  her 
eyes. 

The  muleteer,  who  had  been  watching  her  intently, 
bent  forward. 

"  You  are  in  pain?  "  he  asked,  mistaking  her  emotion. 
"  That  ankle?  It  ought  to  be  bound  up.  And  I — who 
have  nothing."  Then,  after  thought — "  I  must  take  you 
back  to  Barlaam." 

"No,  no!" 

"  No?  "     He  eyed  her  in  much  perplexity. 

Her  gesture  left  the  matter  in  his  hands. 

Dimitri  saw  that  he  was  expected  to  take  charge.  This 
forced  him  to  think.  His  thinking  was  merely  a  blind 
groping  in  possibilities,  with  nothing  stable  save  a  woman, 
a  mystery,  and  a  rotten  ladder — and  none  of  these,  he 
reflected  whimsically,  were  celebrated  for  stability.  Had 
it  been  any  other  girl,  he  would  have  taken  her  straight 
to  the  village;  had  it  been  an  ordinary  lay  brother,  he 
would  have  taken  him  at  once  to  the  monasteries.  But 
this  was  neither — and  yet  both ! 

The  conundrum  was  also  rendered  more  difficult  by  her 
reticence.  He  was  forced  to  pretend  she  was  a  boy.  He 
fumed  inwardly,  jerking  at  his  little  moustache.  That  he, 
Dimitri,  should  in  all  seriousness  be  asked  to  act  as  guardian 
and  knight-errant  to  a  young  woman  masquerading  as  a 
lay  brother  was  certainly  a  state  of  affairs  bordering  upon 
the  fantastic. 

The  sight  of  the  white  face  and  the  bandaged  head,  how- 
ever, plunged  him  abruptly  into  a  penitential  mood.  How 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  179 

could  he,  brute  beast  that  he  was,  remain  inactive  when 
this  brave  woman  was  suffering  in  heroic  silence? 

And  yet  he  felt  conscious  of  unusual  hesitation,  totally 
unlike  himself. 

' '  You  might  come  to  our  house, ' '  he  said  kindly.  ' '  My 
mother  is  there.  But " 

Zetitzka  waited. 

' '  It 's— it  'a ' '  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Nikola.  * '  It 's 

the  oil  I  am  taking  to  Meteoron — promised  for  daybreak. 
Besides — Barlaam,  eh?  You  belong  there,  you  know. 
They  might  let  you  stay  with  us  one  night;  not  more. 
And,  another  thing " 

Scratching  his  chin,  he  continued  with  much  gravity: 
"  There  is  my  mother — eh?  'Tis  against  your  vows  to 
speak  to  women." 

But  from  her  answer  it  appeared  that  to  speak  to 
women  was  not  such  a  sin  after  all. 

She  could  barely  finish  the  sentence.  The  cliffs  seemed 
to  be  toppling  over:  the  sun — that  had  at  last  reached 
them — to  be  growing  dark.  She  felt  as  though  she  were 
sinking  again  into  blackness,  and  only  by  a  great  effort; 
of  will  could  she  retain  her  hold  upon  the  conscious  world. 
Dimitri's  voice  came  to  her  from  an  immense  distance. 

"  I  am  a  mule.  A  mule,  do  I  say.  I  flatter  myself. 
The  more  shame  to  me!  We  will  be  proud,  my  mother 
and  I,  to  welcome  you.  You  will  see — she  is  famous  for 
bandages,  the  little  mother!  Curse  the  oil — the  monks 
must  wait.  I  wager  you  have  had  no  breakfast?  No? 
Ah,  I  thought  not.  Come ;  we  will  go.  Nay,  you  must  not 
move.  Let  me  lift  you.  Have  no  fear ;  I  will  handle  you 
like  eggs,  you  will  see." 

In  spite  of  her  size  and  weight,  Zetitzka  felt  herself 
caught  up,  borne  away,  all,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  in  a 
dream. 

In  another  moment  she  was  seated  upon  Nikola's  back 
— the  barrels  of  oil  having  been  removed  and  rolled  into  a 
crevice  of  the  rocks,  where,  as  Dimitri  remarked,  they 
would  be  safe  from  observation  till  his  return. 

"  I  give  you  much  trouble,"  she  faltered,  inexpressibly 
ashamed  of  her  weakness. 

"  Trouble  I  "    He  laughed  with  genial  irony;  for  a  mo- 


180  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

ment  his  eyes  rested  on  her  with  unusual  warmth  of  re- 
gard; then,  bending  forward  and  speaking  with  simple 
earnestness : — ' '  By  the  faith !  'tis  the  best  stroke  of  work, 
the  best " 

He  became  abruptly  silent,  betraying  an  exaggerated 
and  altogether  unnecessary  apprehension  lest  the  sure- 
footed Nikola  should  stumble — a  gratuitous  form  of  insult 
which  the  little  mule  received  with  the  silence  of  con- 
tempt. 

The  memory  of  that  ride  came  back  to  Zetitzka  after- 
wards as  a  haunting  and  distressful  nightmare — the  jerk- 
ings  of  the  mule;  the  hardness  of  the  pack-saddle;  the 
pain  of  her  ankle;  and  the  terrible  faintness  which  she 
struggled  to  overcome;  their  distorted  shadows,  black  in 
the  glare;  the  grey  world  of  rocks;  the  frowning  cliffs; 
the  pitiless  blue  of  the  sky;  the  fierce  sun  pouring  his 
concentrated  fire  upon  the  empty  gorge. 

They  moved  slowly  and  in  silence,  Zetitzka  holding 
with  both  hands  to  the  saddle-peak,  jolting  painfully — 
Dimitri  leading  Nikola  with  unusual  care  and  an  occa- 
sional curse,  seeking  to  minimise  the  dislocating  upward 
jerks  and  sudden  sharp  descents ;  his  attention  not  so  fully 
occupied  but  that  he  found  time  to  steal  many  a  wondering 
glance  at  the  pathetic  figure  in  the  grey  tunic. 

At  the  junction  of  the  two  paths  Zetitzka  could  no 
longer  stand  the  torture. 

"  How  far?  "  she  questioned. 

Dimitri  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"  Not  far  now.  A  little  ten  minutes;  just  beyond " 

He  broke  off  with  a  startled  oath,  for,  round  a  turning 
in  the  track  that  led  upward  to  Barlaam,  two  old  men 
came  hurrying — the  Abbot  and  Brother  Nicodemus. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  level  sunlight,  slanting  athwart  the  monastic  roofs, 
fell  upon  the  dormitory  of  Barlaam.  In  the  mellow  golden 
illumination  the  old  woodwork,  polished  by  generations 
of  dead  hands,  took  on  wonderful  high-lights,  vying  in 
intensity  with  the  lustrous  note  of  the  great  fig-leaves  hang- 
ing motionless  from  their  gnarled  branches.  All  the  many 
little  doors  in  the  corridor  were  closed,  save  one,  that  of 
Petros. 

The  long  heat  of  the  summer  day  was  well-nigh  over, 
but  the  air  in  the  drowsy  court — so  effectually  shut  in 
by  the  circle  of  low-roofed  buildings — still  hung  slumbrous 
and  heavy.  No  sound  was  audible  save  the  murmurous 
buzz  of  flies,  and  at  times  the  faint  scream  of  far-off 
swallows,  as  they  darted  hither  and  thither  in  the  breath- 
less air.  Yet  the  silence  was  not  oppressive,  but  gave 
rather  the  feeling  of  deep  and  unbroken  peace — of  peace  so 
profound  as  to  partake  of  the  spirit  rather  than  of  the 
body. 

All  at  once  the  door  of  the  Abbot's  cell  opened,  and 
the  old  man  appeared  on  the  threshold.  His  thin  silvery 
hair,  unconfined  by  the  customary  headgear,  fell  to  his 
shoulders;  his  white  beard  descended  to  his  waist.  The 
flowing  lines  of  his  black  robe  lent  to  his  somewhat  bent 
figure  an  air  of  dignity,  and  even  of  grace.  As  he  stood 
there,  so  venerable  and  full  of  quiet  serenity  did  he  appear, 
so  harmoniously  one  with  the  old-world,  time-haunted, 
sun-steeped  aspect  of  his  surroundings,  that  he  might  well 
have  been  taken  for  the  incarnate  soul  of  the  place. 

Resting  both  hands  upon  the  railing,  he  leant  over  and 
gazed  long  into  the  empty  court  below,  from  which  the 
sun  was  gradually  withdrawing  his  rays.  His  movements 
were  leisurely,  meditative;  his  expression  that  of  one  re- 
called from  some  calm  region  of  the  spirit,  to  whom 
the  world  of  reality  is  as  a  passing  show,  "  an  illusion," 

181 


182  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

as  he  himself  would  have  phrased  it.  For  a  full  minute 
did  he  stand  thus,  as  if  forgetful  of  the  reason  that  had 
summoned  him  from  meditation;  then  suddenly  he  raised 
his  voice. 

"  Brother  Nicodemus,"  he  called. 

A  pause ;  then  the  refectory  door  opened,  and  the  monk 
in  question  came  shambling  across  the  courtyard. 

"  Has  Brother  Petros  returned?  " 

"  Not  yet,  venerable  father." 

A  look  of  anxious  wonderment  came  into  the  Abbot's 
face.  He  stroked  his  beard.  From  the  court  below  the 
monk  gazed  up  at  his  superior.  His  plebeian,  bigoted,  and 
dirty  countenance  expressed  virtuous  disapproval,  mingled 
with  that  ill-natured  satisfaction  with  which  some  natures 
hail  the  trespasses  of  even  their  best  friends.  These  feel- 
ings, however,  he  was  careful  to  conceal — though  voiced 
later  to  the  brethren. 

The  Abbot  spoke  again:  "  As  soon  as  Brother  Petros 
returns,  tell  him  that  I  would  have  speech  with  him." 

Nicodemus  snuffled  assent,  upon  which  the  two  men 
separated. 

Within  her  cell  Zetitzka  heard  the  command. 
Stretched  upon  the  hard  bench  that  did  duty  for  a  bed, 
the  physical  pain  she  suffered  was  all  but  forgotten  in 
the  stress  of  mental  anxiety.  Ever  since  her  fate  had 
been  decided  by  the  arrival  of  the  two  aged  monks,  the 
poor  girl  had  been  racked  by  fear.  The  ascent  to  the 
monastery  by  means  of  rope  and  net,  which  on  another 
occasion  would  have  taxed  her  nerves,  was  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  dangers  which  awaited  her  at  the 
top.  When  she  found  that  Petros  had  not  yet  returned, 
she  experienced  relief;  a  temporary  respite,  however,  for 
she  knew  well  that  sooner  or  later  the  young  monk  would 
come  back;  and  then — what  would  happen  then?  She 
dared  not  allow  herself  to  imagine,  for  she  feared  the 
worst. 

Crawling  to  the  door — oblivious  of  pain — she  posted 
herself  so  that  she  could  see  without  being  seen. 

Slowly  the  moments  passed!  To  Zetitzka,  crouching 
there,  listening,  waiting,  they  seemed  interminable. 
Every  sound  within  the  monastery  brought  her  heart  to 
her  mouth.  Never  before  had  the  place  seemed  so  re- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  183 

plete  with  hidden  menace — its  very  air  of  sunlit  stagna- 
tion, of  remote  antiquity,  was  a  mask  behind  which  lurked 
hostility  and  terror.  Now,  indeed,  Zetitzka  felt  the  weight 
of  an  added  desolation.  There  was  no  soul  in  this  aerial 
prison-house  to  befriend  her.  Her  thoughts  fled  to  Dimitri. 
There  had  been  something  about  the  muleteer,  particularly 
during  their  last  interview,  that  set  her  at  ease.  He  had 
made  no  protestations  of  friendship,  yet  his  strength,  good- 
humour,  unspoken  sympathy,  all  made  her  feel  that  here 
indeed  was  a  man  on  whom  a  woman  could  rely.  Her 
heart  had  sunk  when  he  had  been  forced  to  leave  her,  and 
now  with  all  her  might  she  longed  for  him  to  be  again 
by  her  side.  His  parting  words  still  rang  in  her  ears. 
"  Be  brave,"  he  had  whispered,  as  she  had  been  drawn 
upwards  into  space.  "  Be  brave.  We  will  meet  again 
soon." 

A  sudden  sound  caused  her  to  start  and  stare  anxiously 
along  the  corridor.  Was  it  Petros  ?  But,  no ;  it  was  only 
Brother  Apostoli  sauntering  across  the  courtyard.  At  last 
she  heard  the  voice  of  Nicodemus  addressing  the  young 
monk — mingled  reproaches  and  interrogations,  as  it 
seemed,  to  neither  of  which  did  Petros  appear  to  make  re- 
ply. At  the  little  bridge  the  elder  brother  left  him, 
and  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  told  her  to  be 
ready. 

Her  agitation  was  extreme.  Only  imperative  necessity 
forced  her  to  keep  her  ground.  As  Petros  drew  near, 
she  stood  up  and,  nerving  herself  to  the  encounter,  opened 
wide  the  door  of  her  cell.  Raising  his  eyes,  he  saw  her 
white-faced  and  irresolute  upon  the  threshold.  A  flash 
of  guilty  knowledge  leapt  to  the  eyes  of  both. 

It  is  noteworthy  that,  next  to  their  eyes,  their  hands 
betrayed  their  feelings — his  raised  suddenly  to  ward  off 
evil,  hers  pressed  to  her  bosom  to  fight  down  timidity. 

"  Hear  me,"  she  whispered.  The  boy  receded  a  step 
— his  expression  haunted  her  afterwards ;  it  was  transfixed 
with  fear,  with  horror,  and  yet  with  something  of  the 
helpless  fascination  with  which  a  little  bird  watches  the 
advances  of  a  snake. 

"  You  must  hear  me,"  she  said,  rendered  desperate. 
"  You  are  going  to  the  Abbot.  He  will  question  you. 
You  must  not  betray  me." 


184  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

He  seemed  incapable  of  speech — unable  to  move  or  avert 
his  eyes.  She  wondered  if  he  had  heard. 

"  Do  you  understand?  "  she  said  breathlessly,  in- 
sistently; then,  with  a  tremble  in  her  voice,  "  Oh,  Brother 
Petros,  you  were  my  friend !  I  can  explain  all.  I  will  go 
away  soon.  I  promise  it  by  everything  holy — only — don't 
betray  me!  " 

Still  he  stared  at  her.  Hollow-eyed,  with  disordered 
dress,  his  appearance  told  of  his  night  in  the  mountains 
when,  driven  by  the  scourge  of  thought,  he  had  stumbled 
he  scarce  knew  whither. 

They  were  interrupted  by  an  opening  door.  The  Ab- 
bot's voice  reached  them.  Hastily  Zetitzka  receded  into 
her  cell. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"  So,  my  son,  you  will  tell  me  nothing?  " 

The  interview  had  lasted  some  time.  Petros,  with 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  stood  in  front  of  the  aged 
priest.  The  Abbot's  face  expressed  disappointment.  Be- 
tween his  eyebrows  two  perpendicular  wrinkles  gave  the 
impression  that  he  was  puzzled  as  well  as  grieved. 

"  You  will  tell  me  nothing?  "  he  repeated  in  a  low 
voice.  Petros  looked  up  uneasily.  His  eyes  encountered 
those  of  the  Abbot. 

"  I  can  tell  no  more,"  he  burst  out.  "  0  venerable 
father,  ask  me  not! — I  beseech  you!  " 

The  Abbot  nodded  indulgently. 

"  There — there,  my  son,"  he  said,  for  the  boy  was  shak- 
ing. "  No  need  to  distress  yourself.  Take  time.  I  do 
not  question  you  now  as  your  superior,  but  as  one  who 
loves  you.  I  see  well  you  are  distracted.  It  grieves  me 
sore.  I  have  known  you  long — sixteen  years — and  never 
before  to-day  have  I  seen  you  thus." 

He  paused — his  right  hand  strayed  mechanically  to  his 
horn  snuff-box,  then,  as  though  suddenly  conscious  of  the 
action,  dropped  dejectedly  to  his  side.  Somewhat  of  the 
dying  radiance  of  day  strayed  through  the  obscure  panes 
of  the  little  window.  Everything  in  the  cell  stood  clearly 
out,  from  the  agony  upon  the  suspended  cross,  to  the  hand- 
ful of  faded  poppies  flaunting  their  withered  scarlet  against 
the  grey  of  the  wall.  This  fleeting  light  was  like  the  smile 
of  the  dying — brightest  before  death.  The  silence  was 
full  of  sadness. 

The  Abbot  continued  seriously: 

"  You  fled  from  Lavra  before  dawn,  leaving  Angelos  to 
face  the  descent  alone.  You  wandered  among  the  moun- 
tains, all  day,  it  would  seem,  without  rest  and  without 
food.  At  length,  impelled  by  an  awakening  sense  of  duty, 
you  returned  to  Barlaam." 

185 


186  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Petros  muttered  an  affirmative.  The  Abbot  became 
graver. 

"  You  have  no  excuse  to  offer — no  reason  to  give?  " 

Petros  shook  his  head. 

The  Abbot  continued:  "To  me  is  your  conduct  very 
strange — so  unlike  the  lad  I  know.  I — I  cannot  under- 
stand." He  gazed  with  unaffected  anxiety  into  the  down- 
cast young  face  before  him;  fingered  his  beads  absently; 
then,  as  though  struck  by  an  idea,  he  leaned  forward. 

' '  Did  you  see  aught  in  Lavra  ?  "  he  whispered  in  an 
awestruck  voice.  Petros  started,  then  flushed  crimson. 

"  Aught  evil  or  forbidden?  "  suggested  the  Abbot  fear- 
fully. 

The  boy  stared  speechless  into  his  superior's  face.  Con- 
viction fell  suddenly  upon  the  Abbot.  Was  not  the  place 
of  evil  repute?  Brother  Apostoli's  adventure  flashed  to 
his  mind,  as  well  as  many  tales  spread  by  the  peasants. 
And  he  had  allowed  these  two  boys  to  visit  it!  Much  he 
blamed  himself.  Why  had  he  doubted?  Were  not  Holy 
Writings  full  of  such  tales?  In  the  fulness  of  his  peni- 
tence, he  burst  forth: 

' '  My  poor  lad !  Nay,  no  need  to  speak.  I  see — I  see. 
My  relic  has  availed  naught;  yet  it  is  of  extreme  potency, 
and  was  blessed  by  a  bishop.  Alack!  'tis  very  plain  a 
devil  has  appeared  unto  you,  possessing  your  weak  body, 
and  driving  you  forth  into  the  wilderness." 

Petros  listened  with  downcast  head,  tortured  by  an 
hysterical  desire  to  laugh. 

"  But  we  will  cast  him  out,"  continued  the  simple  old 
man,  eagerly.  "  Yea,  we  will  cast  him  out.  Now,  God 
be  praised  that  you  have  returned  to  us.  That  is  already 
much. ' ' 

In  the  silence  that  ensued,  Petros  heard  the  muffled  click 
of  beads.  The  dusk  had  fallen:  the  bowed  head  of  the 
Abbot  with  its  tonsure  and  long  hair,  became  every  mo- 
ment less  visible.  Again  the  old  man  spoke. 

' '  The  anxiety  you  have  caused  us,  my  son,  is  as  nothing 
to  the  wrong  you  have — under  evil  influence,  I  wot,  but 
none  the  less  certainly — inflicted  upon  another." 

Petros  raised  his  head  quickly. 

"  Brother  Angelos.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  might  have  been 
killed." 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  187 

"  Killed!" 

"  Assuredly!  Did  you  not  know?  He  fell  from  the 
ladders,  and  now,  even  as  we  speak,  lies  grievously  wounded 
in  his  cell. ' ' 

"  But— but " 

"  Ah,  you  are  confounded  and  without  speech.  So  is 
it  ever  with  those  possessed.  You  have  acted  selfishly — 
cruelly — as  one  distraught,  knowing  not  evil  from  good. 
Thank  God,  Who  in  His  goodness  gives  you  a  chance  of 
redeeming  your  unworthy  actions.  Rejoice,  my  son;  be 
of  good  cheer.  I  give  Angelos  into  your  charge.  For 
his  sake  I  grant  you  permission  to  enter  his  cell  by  night 
as  well  as  by  day.  The  lad  is  ill — feverish  and  in  pain; 
be  to  him  a  good  Samaritan,  nursing  him  with  love  and 
all  brotherly  tenderness.  So  will  the  memory  of  your 

offence  be  forgotten.  Now "  He  passed  a  hand  across 

his  eyes.  "  I  am  weary,  and  fain  would  sleep.  Good- 
night, my  son.  Well  ?  Did  you  not  hear  ?  Saint  Barlaam ! 
what  is  this?  " 

Petros  had  fallen  to  his  knees. 

"  Venerable  father,"  he  cried,  grasping  the  hem  of  the 
Abbot's  fur-edged  cassock  with  both  hands,  "  I  entreat — I 
implore  you  not  to  make  me  do  this  thing !  ' ' 

Desperately  in  earnest,  his  voice  rose  in  supplication. 
The  old  man  stared,  speechless. 

"  I — I  cannot,  I  may  not,  say  more.  If  it  were  my 

own  secret But  my  tongue  is  tied.  It  must  be  that  I 

am  possessed  by  a  devil.  Nay,  not  as  you  imagine.  Be- 
think you,  would  I  act  thus — of  my  own  free  will  ?  Great 
God ! — no !  ' '  He  made  a  hard,  wringing  motion  of  the 
hands;  then,  with  fresh  vehemence:  "  O  venerable  father, 
be  merciful !  ' ' 

The  Abbot  was  overwhelmed.  The  distress  of  the  young 
suppliant  seemed  to  shake  the  little  cell,  filling  it  with  a 
breath  from  the  turbulent  world  of  unrestrained  emotion, 
strangely  at  variance  with  its  atmosphere  of  ancient  peace. 
It  agitated  the  old  man  painfully,  stirring  in  his  aged 
body  the  memory  of  passions  overcome  by  prayer,  of 
youth  conquered  by  the  years.  His  heart  went  out  to  the 
boy.  He  seemed  to  see  himself  in  this  young,  impulsive 
nature  that  took  the  little  things  of  life  so  seriously — him- 
self, how  long  ago !  Had  he  acted  as  his  affection  dictated, 


188  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

he  would  at  once  have  given  way,  but  the  responsibility  of 
his  office  brooked  no  weakness.  His  duty  was  plain. 
Obedience,  implicit  and  silent,  bound  all  within  the  monas- 
tery. So  stringent  was  this  rule  that  it  was  never  ques- 
tioned. The  Abbot's  amazement  was  but  the  more  com- 
plete. 

Petros,  however,  mistook  his  silence  for  vacillation. 

"  Send  Brother  Nicodemus,"  he  proposed  eagerly. 
"  For  him  will  there  be  no  danger." 

The  naivete  of  the  request  brought  a  smile  to  the  Abbot's 
face.  He  called  to  mind  that  in  many  ways  Petros  was 
still  a  child. 

"  Tut,  tut!  my  little  son,"  he  remonstrated,  patting  him 
on  the  shoulder;  "your  looks  are  wild,  your  words  are 
naught  but  foolishness.  '  Send  Brother  Nicodemus,'  say 
you — and  wherefore?  If  it  be  wrong  for  you,  it  will  be 
wrong  for  him  likewise.  Bethink  you;  to  tend  the  sick 
is  enjoined  on  us  by  the  dear  Lord  Himself.  Nay,  I  am 
too  lenient.  But  'tis  the  foul  fiend  speaking  within  you. 
He  abhors  good  actions.  Now,  no  more  words,  but  do 
even  as  I  tell  you,  for  holy  obedience '  sake. ' ' 

The  futility  of  further  argument  struck  Petros  with  con- 
sternation. For  the  first  time  in  his  life  it  awoke  in  him 
a  spirit  of  rebellion,  of  impotent  despair  similar  to  that 
which  goads  a  wild  animal  on  finding  itself  trapped.  Re- 
spect for  his  superior  and  life-long  training  sealed  his  lips. 
His  eyes,  however,  betrayed  the  state  of  his  mind. 

The  Abbot  rose  to  his  feet:  tall  and  erect — no  longer  a 
frail  old  man,  but  the  soul  of  authority  made  visible.  Be- 
fore his  steady  dominant  gaze  the  eyes  of  the  poor  boy 
fell  abashed;  his  head  drooped  to  his  chest. 

"  Rise,  my  son,"  said  the  Abbot,  quietly.  Petros 
obeyed.  The  Abbot  placed  his  hands  upon  the  young 
monk's  shoulders. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  somewhat?  "  he  asked. 

A  muffled  affirmative  answered  him. 

"  It  has  ever  been  my  great  hope,"  began  the  aged 
priest,  with  unusual  gravity,  "  that  on  no  distant  day, 
when  I  have  gone,  you  may  be  even  as  I  am  now — an 
abbot.  'My  son,  I  have  watched  you — trained  you,  with 
God  knows  how  much  love  and  fear.  To  no  one  else  in 
the  monastery  could  I  leave  the  work  of  my  life,  stead- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  189 

fast  in  the  assured  hope  that,  with  the  dear  Lord's  as- 
sistance, all  will  be  well — as  well,  nay,  perchance  better, 
than  it  is  now.  But  youth  is  impetuous — a  straw  in  the 
wind  of  the  world. ' ' 

He  paused.  His  eyes,  resting  on  the  downcast  face, 
grew  wistful  in  their  anxiety — yearning  to  help,  yet  pa- 
thetically conscious  of  the  gulf  of  years.  He  continued: 

' '  When  you  are  the  Abbot  of  Barlaam,  my  son,  you  will 
understand.  For  the  present,  be  assured  that  what  I  com- 
mand is  best,  and  ' ' — he  paused  again  to  give  his  words  full 
weight — "  must  be  obeyed.  Now  go.  Take  Brother  An- 
gelos  his  supper." 

Ten  minutes  later  Zetitzka  was  aroused  by  a  timid 
knocking.  Upon  her  answering,  someone  appeared  in  the 
low  doorway  who,  though  all  but  unrecognisable  in  the 
dusk,  she  instinctively  felt  to  be  Petros. 

Her  heart  beat  very  fast.  An  unconquerable  shyness 
sealed  her  lips.  The  obscurity  seemed  powerless  to  hide 
her. 

Trembling  and  with  downcast  eyes  she  waited  nervously 
for  what  he  might  say  or  do.  There  followed  a  long  and 
disconcerting  silence.  Then  Zetitzka  heard  the  clatter 
of  a  tray  hastily  set  down.  The  door  closed — in  sudden 
panic  as  it  seemed,  for  the  sound  of  flying  footsteps  came 
to  her,  receding  faint  and  ever  fainter  into  the  distance. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

' '  THE  venerable  father  says  he  is  possessed  by  a  devil. ' ' 

Nicodemus  spoke  in  a  hushed  and  awestruck  voice,  ad- 
dressing Brothers  Gerasimos  and  Philemon.  The  three 
monks  were  seated  on  the  wooden  bench  that  ran  round 
the  tower  of  the  windlass.  Before  them  and  below,  the 
gorges  swam  in  sunlight ;  behind,  the  rude  capstan  extended 
its  four  gaunt  arms.  The  net  used  for  the  ascent  lay  on 
the  floor,  while  close  by  was  to  be  seen  the  clumsy  iron 
hook  fastened  to  the  end  of  the  rope. 

The  brethren,  side  by  side,  all  clad  in  rusty  black,  and 
slow  in  movement,  resembled  aged  crows. 

At  the  remark  of  Nicodemus,  his  friends  crossed  them- 
selves with  grave  faces. 

"  Verily,  he  is  much  changed,"  croaked  Gerasimos,  wag- 
ging a  mournful  head. 

' '  He  has  even  lost  interest  in  bulbs, ' '  wheezed  Philemon, 
biting  black  nails. 

' '  I  am  sorry  for  the  lad, ' '  said  Gerasimos,  ' '  truly  sorry. 
He  cheered  us.  I  love  him.  Yea,  I  miss  his  young  laugh. 
The  venerable  father  did  wisely  to  command  that  he  be 
treated  as  usual.  Devils  must  not  be  crossed  rashly,  but 
with  many  pious  precautions. ' '  He  spat  thoughtfully  into 
space,  rubbed  his  ragged  moustache  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  and  continued :  "I  confess  to  ye  twain  that  I  was  in 
high  hopes  to  expose  the  foul  fiend  this  very  morning.  I 
beguiled  our  dear  afflicted  brother  into  a  corner  and  read 
to  him  a  murder  case  out  of  the  Neon  Asty.  '  If  it  be  a 
real  devil,'  thought  I  craftily, '  it  will  rejoice  over  murder.' 
But,  no.  The  lad  gazed  at  me  the  while  with  a  lack-lustre 
eye." 

"  You  take  too  much  interest  in  murders,"  reproved 
Nicodemus. 

"  They  make  my  flesh  creep,"  said  Gerasimos  simply. 

Nicodemus  scowled.  "  Flesh  was  made  to  mortify,  not 

190 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  191 

to  creep.  But  were  I  Abbot  of  Barlaam,  I  would  inflict  a 
grievous  penance.  The  lad's  inattention  during  service  is 
a  scandal.  Did  neither  of  you  twain  notice  it?  " 

"  Ay,  did  we,"  corroborated  Philemon  eagerly.  "  And 
so  did  the  venerable  father.  I  caught  him  looking  often, 
in  sorrow  as  it  would  seem,  for  he  made  two  mistakes  in  the 
6th  Hour." 

"So  he  did,"  assented  Gerasimos,  stroking  his  beard. 
"  So  he  did.  But  methought  it  was  the  fault  of  his  eye- 
sight, for  it  fails  him  sadly,  in  spite  of  his  spectacles. ' ' 

"Spectacles!"  Nicodemus  ejaculated  with  harsh  in- 
tolerance. "  I  marvel  much  that  the  Abbot  maketh  use  of 
such  worldly  things.  I  have  no  need  of  them.  I  take  it 
we  were  born  without  spectacles." 

He  faced  the  others  triumphantly,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  clinches  an  argument. 

"  Polycala!  "  ejaculated  Gerasimos.  "  How  clearly  and 
well  you  expound  anything  that  is  not  Scripture,  Brother 

Nicodemus — and  yet " 

4  Yet,  what?" 

"  We  were  born  without  clothes,  you  remember." 

"  I  do  not  remember,"  said  Nicodemus  sulkily. 

"  The  eggs  were  good  to-day,"  remarked  Philemon,  after 
a  pause,  during  which  all  three  sat  without  moving,  their 
eyes  fixed  dreamily  upon  the  ravine.  Gerasimos  turned 
his  head  indolently,  like  an  old  tortoise  sunning  itself  in  the 
heat. 

"  One  pistevo  and  one  paternoster,"  said  he  drowsily, 
"  that  is  the  time  to  boil  a  good  egg." 

"  They  say  two  pistevos  at  Meteoron,"  mused  Philemon, 
"  but  that  is  because  the  Hegoumenos  likes  his  eggs  hard." 

"  Did  you  notice  Brother  Stephanos  at  breakfast?  " 
struck  in  Nicodemus,  his  voice  warming  with  devout  en- 
thusiasm. "  He  ate  naught." 

"  The  more  for  us,"  murmured  Gerasimos. 

Nicodemus  turned  upon  him. 

"  You  pervert  my  meaning.  You  make  a  god  of  your 
stomach — carnal-minded,  lusting  ever  after  the  flesh-pots  of 
Egypt." 

"  Nay,  I  never  think  of  Egypt,"  returned  Gerasimos 
composedly. 

"  Peace,  my  brethren."    Philemon  raised  a  dirty  hand. 


192  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  This  is  not  seemly.  Leave  it  to  lads  like  Petros  and 
Angelos  to  quarrel." 

"  Bethink  you  they  have  quarrelled?  " 

"  Beyond  a  doubt.  Were  they  not  aforetime  ever  to- 
gether, even  as  David  and  Jonathan?  And  now,  as  I 
passed  by  the  dormitories,  I  chanced  on  Brother  Petros 
with  a  tray  and  a  white  face,  evidently  of  two  minds 
whether  he  should  enter  or  no." 

"  And  did  he?  "  inquired  both  monks,  with  insatiable 
curiosity. 

11  He  did,  for  I  watched;  but  he  was  out  of  the  cell 
before  you  could  doff  your  cassock." 

"  I  never  doff  mine,"  commented  Gerasimos. 

Philemon  scratched  himself  thoughtfully.  "  Something 
ought  to  be  done,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "  If,  per- 
adventure,  the  Abbot  be  unable  to  exorcise  the  evil  spirit, 
Brother  Stephanos  might  prevail.  For  I  hold  it  is  not 
safe  that  it  be  allowed  to  roam  about  seeking  whom  it  may 
devour. ' ' 

"  Surely  you  confuse,"  piped  Gerasimos  eagerly. 
"  That  is  the  work  of  a  loose  devil,  not  of  an  imprisoned 
one." 

"It  is  all  one — I  make  no  distinction  between  fiends. 
The  holy  fathers  made  none,  and  that  is  good  enough  for 
me."^ 

This,  being  sound  doctrine,  was  hailed  with  an  approv- 
ing chorus  of  "Polycalas!  " 


CHAPTER  XXVIH 

PETBOS,  bare-headed,  bare-footed,  and  ungirt,  was  seated 
upon  the  precipice  brink  above  the  ladders. 

Suddenly  a  shadow  sailed  across  the  face  of  the  sun. 
Raising  his  head  listlessly,  the  boy  saw  his  friend  the 
eagle  poise  itself  gracefully  on  extended  wings,  hover  a 
moment  with  talons  outstretched,  then  alight  within  a 
dozen  yards.  A  moment  of  intent,  keen-eyed,  questioning 
inspection,  then  the  bird,  visibly  reassured,  waddled  closer, 
its  ungainly  movements  on  the  rocks  contrasting  ludicrously 
with  its  superb  and  easy  mastery  of  the  air. 

Petros  had  won  as  much  of  its  fierce,  suspicious,  and  un- 
tamable heart  as  it  had  deigned  to  bestow,  won  it  by  self- 
effacement,  patience,  sympathy,  quiet  movement,  and  tit- 
bits begged  from  the  monastic  kitchen  or  saved  from  his 
own  meals.  He  was  fond  of  birds — Saint  Francis  had 
preached  to  them.  They  brought  out  certain  tender  and 
lovable  qualities  in  the  lad's  nature,  thereby  fulfilling  a 
duty  to  him  which  humanity  had  neglected.  And  in  return 
for  tranquil  observation  these  shy  and  capricious  little 
people  of  heaven  and  earth  had  ended  by  accepting  him 
almost  as  one  of  themselves. 

But  upon  this  occasion,  after  the  first  indifferent  glance, 
Petros  took  no  notice  of  the  eagle,  but  sat  with  his  eyes 
resting  upon  the  distance,  lost  in  thought.  The  bird  ceased 
to  approach.  For  a  moment  it,  too,  gazed  into  the  dis- 
tance; then,  with  a  sudden  staccato  movement,  it  bent  its 
head,  sharpened  its  beak  upon  its  claws,  and  began  to  preen 
its  plumage. 

The  face  of  the  young  man  looked  grey  in  the  strong 
light,  worn  with  distress  of  mind  and  want  of  sleep.  Con- 
science upbraided  him  continually.  Every  moment  seemed 
to  add  to  his  sin.  He  would  have  to  tell  all  to  the  Abbot 
in  the  hour  of  confession;  but,  having  been  to  confession 
upon  the  day  preceding  that  of  his  visit  to  Lavra,  it  was 
13  193 


194  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

not  imperative  that  lie  should  again  confess  for  three,  or 
even  four  weeks.  This,  however,  in  no  wise  exonerated 
him  in  his  own  mind,  for  there  was  a  tacit  understanding 
in  the  monastery  that  should  a  monk  have  aught  upon  his 
conscience  he  must  unbosom  himself  without  delay. 

Like  one  in  a  dream,  Petros  gazed  around.  There,  bask- 
ing in  the  keen  sunlight,  were  the  ancient  walls  of  Bar- 
laam.  Every  seam  and  fissure  visible,  they  resembled  aged 
faces  seen  in  the  unflattering  mirror  of  the  morning. 
The  boy  looked  at  them  with  a  dull  wonder.  Was  this 
indeed  Barlaam?  It  seemed  strangely  unfamiliar;  the 
eagle  likewise,  the  opposing  cliffs,  and  the  gorge  down 
there,  still  in  shadow.  He  wondered  why.  The  feeling 
of  comfortable  and  light-hearted  familiarity  with  his  sur- 
roundings had  gone,  everything  appeared  to  be  alienated, 
estranged. 

Particularly  was  this  the  case  with  Barlaam.  In  his 
imaginative  and  boyish  way — making  of  it,  indeed,  a  sort 
of  lonely  game — Petros  had  often  amused  himself  with  pre- 
tending that  the  monastery  possessed  a  personality;  that 
it,  like  its  inmates,  was  capable  of  likes  and  dislikes. 
Its  different  aspects  at  different  hours  furthered  this  fanci- 
ful idea.  Unlike  his  fellow-monks,  Petros  was  keenly  alive 
to  the  thought  that  generations  of  brethren,  extending 
like  a  human  chain  far  back  into  the  past,  had  lived 
where  he  lived.  This  fact  endowed  the  silent  little  monas- 
tery with  an  atmosphere  of  mystery  and  romance.  It  also 
made  the  place  human  and  endearing ;  for  was  not  his 
existence  but  a  continuation  of  theirs?  Hitherto  Barlaam 
had  always  seemed  to  smile  upon  this  young  dreamer  of 
dreams;  even  on  grey  days,  or  nights  of  storm,  its  sup- 
posed mental  attitude  was  kindly,  protective,  almost  pa- 
ternal. 

But  now  the  spirit  he  had  so  lightly  evoked  became  a 
terror.  In  spite  of  the  benediction  of  sunlight,  the  monas- 
tery appeared  to  frown,  to  threaten,  to  denounce.  It 
knew!  Not  a  stone  but  cried  sacrilege.  The  tiled  roof  of 
the  dormitory — a  shimmer  of  golden-red  stained  with 
shades  of  various  green — seemed  to  stand  out  and  away 
from  the  rest  in  shuddering  notoriety.  She  was  there ! 

It  is  impossible  to  trace  all  the  thoughts  that  chased 
each  other  through  the  young  monk's  mind  as  he  sat  mo- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  195 

tionless  upon  the  precipice  brink,  a  prey  to  conflicting  and 
often  entirely  contradictory  emotions.  To  essay  to  do  so 
would  be  as  bewildering  a  task  as  that  of  an  artist  who 
might  endeavour  to  sketch  some  wild  mountain  scene  in 
swirling  mist. 

An  obstinate  denial  of  facts  held  first  place.  Angelos 
was  a  boy!  Petros  dwelt  upon  their  former  intimacy, 
eagerly  recalling  every  boyish  trait,  persistently  ignoring 
all  that  was  unmistakably  feminine,  till  he  almost  persuaded 
himself  that  nothing  had  changed. 

"  Angelos,  the  lad  he  had  so  often  scolded  and  patron- 
ised, the  boy  he  had  wrestled  with  in  the  Catholicon!  A 
woman!  It  was  absurd." 

Then  the  memory  of  Lavra  flashing  into  his  mind, 
trenchant,  incontrovertible,  his  castle  of  disbelief  tumbled 
about  his  ears. 

And  yet  it  was  impossible  to  dissociate  this  enemy,  this 
"  woman  "  from  the  boy  he  had  made  his  friend.  He  had 
come  to  know  this  lay  brother  so  well.  He  had  only  to 
close  his  eyes  and  he  could  see  the  familiar  figure  in  the 
dingy  tunic;  the  short,  lustrous,  wavy,  black  hair  that 
seemed  for  ever  rebelling  against  the  conventional  cap; 
the  face,  olive-tinted,  with  the  indefinable  expression  of  one 
who  has  known  sorrow,  and  the  great  mournful  eyes.  Even 
her  occasional  bitterness  was  attributed  to  the  unknown  in- 
jury that  caused  her  to  appear  at  times  hard  and  unbe- 
lieving, and  translated  in  the  lad's  mind  into  an  additional 
cause  for  sympathy.  Yes,  Petros  knew  and  heartily  liked 
every  trait;  ay,  and  every  tone  of  the  voice,  soft  and 
serious,  with  its  slightly  foreign  accent.  They  were  as 
pleasantly  familiar  to  him  as  the  snuffle  of  Brother 
Gerasimos,  or  the  benevolent  smile  of  the  Abbot,  things  com- 
fortably safe  in  this  world  of  danger — and  now  he  was  sud- 
denly asked  to  hold  them  in  abhorrence! 

Gradually  a  doubt  grew  within  his  mind — the  first  that 
had  ever  attacked  him.  If  Angelos  were  a  woman,  were 
women  really  as  evil  as  he  had  been  led  to  believe?  He 
gasped  as  this  unexpectedly  occurred  to  him,  then  earnestly, 
conscientiously,  set  himself  to  probe  further.  One  by  one 
he  recalled  and  pondered  over  her  actions,  even  her  looks, 
seeking  to  discover  wickedness,  but  finding  only  allurement 
and  charm.  Little  by  little  he  fell  under  the  spell  of  these 


196  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

reminiscences,  remembering  many  an  incident  that  at  the 
time  had  seemed  to  him  unimportant,  but  now  became 
momentous  and  endowed  with  unexpected  fascination.  Un- 
consciously they  wooed  him  into  a  tender  and  pensive 
reverie;  and,  as  he  sat  immersed  in  dreams,  his  eyes  lost 
their  anxiety  and  the  lines  of  care  all  but  vanished  from 
his  brow. 

Then  all  at  once,  with  a  start,  he  recalled  his  wicked- 
ness and  his  concealment  of  sin.  In  a  thrill  of  horror  he 
crossed  himself,  then  fell  to  praying  aloud.  And  again, 
his  prayer  ceasing  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  his  beads 
fell  from  his  listless  fingers,  and  longingly,  yet  fearfully — 
as  one  fascinated  against  his  will — he  gazed  towards  the 
shimmering  dormitory. 

The  eagle  edged  closer.  His  bright  unwinking  eyes 
fastened  themselves  with  a  fierce  impatience  upon  this  un- 
accountably-dilatory purveyor  of  monastic  tit-bits.  Then 
angrily — as  a  man  might  shrug  protesting  shoulders — he 
fluffed  out  his  feathers. 

Petros  looked  at  his  friend  vacantly,  yet  finding  in  his 
silent  presence  a  certain  odd  and  companionable  sympathy. 
His  air  of  proud  aloofness  reminded  him  of  Angelos.  He 
knew  by  experience  that  he  had  only  to  raise  an  abrupt 
arm  for  the  bird,  apparently  so  confiding,  to  betray  alarm. 
Vaguely  he  wondered  if  the  eagle  also  were  a  fiend  in 
disguise. 

What  was  she  doing — what  thinking — as  hour  by  hour 
she  lay  alone  in  her  cell?  What  did  women  think  about? 
But  barely  had  he  formulated  the  question  than  he  shrank 
from  an  inquiry  so  depraved;  and  yet,  at  the  very  next 
moment,  he  scoffed  at  himself;  for,  after  all,  it  was  only 
Angelos,  whose  thoughts  he  knew  to  resemble  his  own  in 
their  longing  for  sympathy  and  companionship.  But  no 
— he  again  recoiled — it  was  in  very  deed  one  of  the  for- 
bidden sex  who  had  penetrated  to  the  monastery  fraud- 
ulently, deceiving  all,  even  the  venerable  father,  doubtless 
with  evil  intent ;  perhaps  a  fair  seductress  like  the  woman 
who  had  tempted  the  worthy  Saint  Paphnutius.  How 
ran  the  legend?  To  get  rid  of  her  the  saint  burned 
off  his  right  hand;  the  woman  fell  dead;  he  prayed,  and 
she  returned  to  life,  and  became  a  nun. 

Again  he  looked  towards  the  monastery.     Not  a  soul  was 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  197 

in  sight.  All  was  quiet.  The  brethren  were  in  their  cells. 
Was  she  also  asleep?  The  Abbot  had  given  him  leave  to 
enter  her  cell  at  all  hours;  but  thus  far,  beyond  thrusting 
her  food  within  her  door,  he  had  not  availed  himself  of 

the  permission.     But  now ?    Was  it  not  his  duty  to 

see  that  no  further  evil  happened  to  the  monastery  ?  With 
a  woman — one  never  knew.  He  would  fain,  also,  com- 
pare her  with  his  recollection  of  the  boy  he  had  known. 
He  would  just  peep  in.  Peradventure  she  slept.  And  if 
awake,  he  could  always  run  away ;  ay,  or  make  the  sign  of 
the  blessed  cross. 

Rising  to  his  feet,  he  walked  slowly  in  the  direction  of 
the  dormitories. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  impulse  carried  Petros  as  far  as  the  little  bridge 
that  connected  the  court  with  the  dormitory  gallery.  Upon 
it  he  paused  irresolute.  Had  the  girl's  cell  been  a  lion's 
den  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  boy  would  have  suffered 
from  such  an  entire  evaporation  of  courage.  His  imagina- 
tion, fed  upon  the  supernatural,  intensified  his  fear. 
Everything  conspired  to  fan  it.  A  sudden  greyness,  as  a 
cloud  trailed  its  shadow  over  the  heights,  became  to  him 
the  frown  of  an  all-seeing  God. 

At  her  door  he  paused  again.  Listening  intently,  he 
could  hear  no  sound.  Opening  the  door  stealthily,  he 
peeped  in. 

Zetitzka  was  lying  on  her  divan.  For  the  first  time 
since  that  unexpected  meeting  in  the  corridor  Petros 
voluntarily  looked  at  her.  Everything  about  her,  from  her 
little  naked  feet  to  her  unconfined  hair,  seemed  different, 
and  as  if  it  had  acquired  a  new  and  subtle  significance. 

Her  eyes  were  closed,  but  he  could  see  her  face  nestling 
in  the  soft  black  cloud  of  her  short  hair.  It  looked  white 
and  drawn.  It  affected  him.  He  had  not  expected  it  to 
look  like  this.  His  fear  greatly  diminished. 

Still  he  peered,  standing  in  the  passage  ready  for  im- 
mediate flight,  his  body  bent  forward,  supporting  himself 
with  one  hand  upon  the  lintel,  not  daring  to  breathe.  But 
Zetitzka  did  not  move.  The  cell  was  shadowy  and  retired, 
full  of  cloistered  quiet,  slumbrous  yet  cool  in  the  warm 
hush  of  the  summer  noon,  infinitely  peaceful.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  associate  it  with  the  presence  of  aught  evil. 

Petros  was  thinking  swiftly.  She  was  like  Angelos — 
yet  not  like  Angelos.  He  could  not  have  told  the  differ- 
ence. Of  course,  she  had  to  conceal  her  real  name.  He 
wondered  what  it  was.  And  her  sorrow  ?  Did  devils  have 
sorrows  ?  To  be  a  devil  at  all  must  be  matter  sufficient  for 
sorrow !  But  she  did  not  look  like  a  devil.  Ah,  that  was 

198 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  199 

the  wile  of  the  evil  one;  Brother  Nicodemus  had  often 
dwelt  on  that.  With  fascinated  curiosity  he  watched  her, 
swayed  mentally  this  way  and  that.  The  wickedness  of 
her !  To  dare  to  pollute  Barlaam !  The  effrontery !  To  pass 
herself  off  as  a  boy,  to  deceive  everyone!  Yet  she  looked 
neither  wicked  nor  bold,  only  pathetic  and  lonely,  lying 
there  with  anxiety  and  suffering  imprinted  upon  her  white 
face.  The  more  he  studied  her,  the  more  she  reminded 
him  of  Angelos;  and  the  more  his  fears  diminished. 
Memories  rushed  to  his  mind,  of  how  he  had  been  obliged 
to  assist  her  on  the  ladders — her  dependence  upon  him 
in  countless  ways — her  bewilderment  when  he  had  ex- 
plained her  duties  in  the  Catholicon.  All,  by  ascribing  to 
her  the  reassuring  characteristic  of  helplessness,  conspired 
to  restore  his  courage.  Other  memories,  too,  came  crowd- 
ing to  him :  her  winning  sympathy  and  companionship ;  her 
sadness  and  the  haunting  appeal  of  her  great  wistful  eyes ; 
the  touching  quality  of  her  gaiety,  a  sunny  flicker  that 
came  and  went,  requiring  to  be  coaxed  into  life,  an  un- 
obtrusive echo  of  his  own. 

Suddenly  remorse  and  shame  caused  his  face  to  flush. 
She  was  ill — lonely — in  pain — his  fault!  The  Abbot  was 
right,  as  ever;  he  had  acted  selfishly.  His  desertion  of 
this  companion  who  suffered  so  bravely  and  in  silence 
struck  him  for  the  first  time  as  cowardice.  She  had  but 
him  in  the  monastery,  she  had  entreated  him  to  befriend 
her,  and  he  had  fled  her  presence;  thrust  her  food  within 
her  cell  as  if  she  were  a  wild  beast ;  and  now  he  was  spying 
upon  her  privacy  with  unworthy  curiosity.  In  swift  con- 
trition,  he  flung  the  door  open  to  its  widest. 

With  a  start,  Zetitzka  opened  her  eyes.  Petros  was 
standing  on  the  threshold.  His  figure,  black  against  the 
flood  of  light,  exhaled  a  faint  odour  of  incense.  She  looked 
up  at  him  with  troubled,  questioning  eyes,  flinging  at  the 
same  time  a  coarse  rug  over  her  naked  feet. 

"  Do — do  you  want  for  aught?  "  he  stammered. 

Her  negative  scarcely  reached  him.  At  one  bound  all 
his  fears  had  returned.  Everything  about  her,  from  her 
hands  to  her  voice,  proclaimed  her  sex — the  sex  that  he  had 
been  taught  all  his  life  to  hold  in  abhorrence.  She  was 
fully  as  embarrassed  as  he. 

"  Will  you  not  be  seated!  "  she  faltered. 


200  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"Nay!  "  he  cried. 

She  did  not  speak  again,  and  he  was  beyond  speech, 
every  thought  seemed  too  alarming  for  words.  They  faced 
each  other  in  a  long  silence  that  was  full  of  constraint. 
The  old  ease,  the  old  familiarity  of  intercourse  had  gone. 
They  had  become  clouds  of  inexpressible  feeling  towards 
each  other. 

Zetitzka  feigned  to  be  interested  in  the  pattern  of  her 
divan-cover,  but  in  reality  she  was  thinking  with  an  almost 
painful  intensity.  More  prominent  even  than  the  in- 
describable relief  that  came  with  the  certainty  that  he  had 
kept  her  secret,  was  the  sensation  of  alliance  connected 
with  this  young  monk.  This  new  factor  in  their  rela- 
tionship brought  him  alarmingly  near.  It  bound  his  fate 
to  hers.  She  could  never  again  think  of  him  with  indif- 
ference. Swiftly  Zetitzka  was  realising  one  of  the  pro- 
foundest  truths  of  life,  that  the  closest  tie  between  two 
human  beings  is  a  bond  of  secrecy  upon  a  thing  which 
vitally  and  fatefully  concerns  both  or  either.  This  bond 
had  brought  about  a  sense  of  intimacy  in  one  night  which 
years  might  not  have  accomplished;  for  in  touching  the 
chord  of  a  secret  and  mutual  experience,  it  made  each  feel 
that  they  had  gone  deep  into  each  other's  lives,  and  that 
these  lives  would  retain  this  impression  for  ever. 

Gradually,  too,  new  feelings,  all  connected  with  this  boy, 
were  introducing  themselves  into  Zetitzka 's  mind. 

Dimly  she  recognised  how  much  it  must  have  cost  him, 
a  monk,  to  keep  her  secret — how  deeply  he  had  offended 
against  monastic  laws  and  against  his  own  conscience — 
and  all  for  her,  to  save  her,  the  enemy  of  his  order,  a 
woman!  Inexpressibly  touched,  inexpressibly  grateful,  a 
wave  of  some  new  emotion  surged  up  in  her  heart.  This 
unlooked-for  chivalry  filled  her  with  wonder  and  admira- 
tion, with  a  sense  of  confidence,  of  dependence,  of  touching 
and  vital  obligation. 

But  Petros,  all  unaware  of  her  thoughts,  stood  riveted 
to  the  spot.  His  fingers  twitched  nervously  upon  his  beads. 
His  throat  was  dry.  He  knew  he  ought  to  flee — yet  was 
conscious  of  a  guilty  inclination  to  remain.  Had  she  cast 
a  spell  over  him? — for  these  alarming  sensations  must 
surely  be  of  the  devil.  His  mind,  working  in  its  old 
groove,  tried  to  think  of  a  prayer,  but  could  not.  It  tried 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  201 

also  to  feel  appropriate  horror  and  repugnance;  but  that 
also  failed.  He  could  do  nothing  but  stand  before  her,  his 
whole,  shrinking,  fascinated  soul  within  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  Zetitzka  moved,  and,  fearful  lest  he  should 
again  encounter  her  gaze,  Petros  looked  hastily  at  the 
door.  The  tray  which  he  had  brought  an  hour  ago  at- 
tracted his  attention. 

"Saint  Barlaam!"  he  ejaculated.  "You  have  eaten 
naught!  "  Then,  forgetful  of  his  resolve,  and  looking  full 
at  her,  "  You  must  eat,  or  you  will  become  ill." 

The  unconscious  solicitude  in  his  voice  brought  about 
that  which  neither  pain  nor  anxiety  had  been  able  to  ac- 
complish. Zetitzka 's  mouth  trembled,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  She  felt  the  emotion  rising,  and  fought  hard 
to  conquer  it ;  but  it  was  beyond  her  control.  In  her  feeble 
state  she  could  not  keep  back  her  tears,  and  was  dis- 
tressingly conscious  of  them  trickling  one  by  one  down 
her  cheeks.  In  sudden  confusion  she  averted  her  head, 
for  the  young  monk  swam  in  a  blurred  mist,  and  for  naught 
in  the  world  would  she  have  had  him  witness  her  dis- 
tress. 

But  he  saw  it.  It  affected  him  deeply.  It  finished  what 
her  fascination  and  her  mystery  had  begun.  Not  that 
alone,  but  the  sight  of  her  sorrow  disarmed  him  of  his  only 
weapon  by  robbing  him  of  the  fear  that  had  been  his 
one  safeguard.  In  a  flash  the  woman,  that  to  his  mind 
constituted  the  danger,  vanished,  to  give  place  to  a  human 
being,  lonely,  helpless,  and  in  pain,  seeking  only  to  conceal 
her  unhappiness.  A  great  tenderness  of  compassion  welled 
up  in  his  heart. 

"  Weep  not,"  he  implored.  His  voice  shook,  and,  near- 
ing  her  timidly,  he  stretched  forth  a  hand. 

But  Zetitzka  did  not  respond.  In  the  dead  hush  of  the 
cell  the  sound  of  her  grief  was  pathetically  audible.  She 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  him. 

Petros  gazed  at  her  in  consternation.  He  longed  to  com- 
fort her,  yet  knew  not  what  to  say.  Why  was  she 
crying?  Was  it  because  she  was  wicked?  But,  man- 
like, he  refused  to  believe  that  aught  so  fair  to  look  upon 
could  be  evil.  Little  by  little  he  began  to  take  an  uncon- 
scious pleasure  in  looking  at  her.  Her  hand  masked  her 
eyes,  for  which  he  was  grateful,  but  her  tremulous  mouth 


202  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

and  the  long  curve  of  her  throat  set  his  heart  beating  in- 
explicably. Unversed  in  women's  looks,  he  had  no 
standard  of  beauty  whereby  to  measure  her;  but  com- 
parison had  no  place  in  his  thoughts.  He  did  not  even 
realise  that  she  was  beautiful.  He  forgot  why  he  had 
come;  forgot  his  wickedness  and  distress  of  mind,  forgot 
his  fear,  and  her  disguise,  forgot  everything  except  that  she 
was  there. 

At  length  Zetitzka  spoke.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  re- 
strained by  a  feeling  of  unconquerable  shyness.  Her  words 
awoke  him  as  from  a  trance.  What  was  she  saying  ?  That 
she  could  never  thank  him  enough.  That  as  soon  as  she 
could  move  she  would  go  away. 

The  latter  was  the  only  thing  that  seemed  momentous. 
It  struck  him  with  consternation.  Its  meaning  suddenly 
dawned  upon  him,  not  with  relief — as  he  had  expected — 
but  with  an  unimaginable  vacancy  of  prospect. 

"  But — but  you  cannot  be  moved  yet!  "  he  protested. 
"  In  a  week  or  a  month 

"  Are  you  in  pain?  "  he  added  quickly,  for  her  face 
had  contracted.  Then,  as  the  wound  in  her  head,  from 
which  the  bandage  had  fallen,  caught  his  eye:  "  Holy 
Saint  Basil !  your  hair  is  matted  with  blood. ' ' 

Her  indifference  to  the  injury  stirred  him  to  fresh  pro- 
testations. 

"  Saint  Barlaam!  yes.  It  must  have  been  like  this 
since  yesterday.  How  I  have  neglected  you !  But  that  is 
over,  thank  God !  ' ' 

Eagerly,  with  a  temporary  return  of  his  old  boyish  man- 
ner, he  proposed  various  monastic  remedies — '  '*•  potent  and 
high-excelling,"  as  he  quaintly  phrased  it — warmly  recom- 
mended an  ointment  made  from  rats '  bones  and  blessed  by  a 
bishop,  which,  he  gravely  affirmed,  had  cured  Brother  Nico- 
demus  of  a  grievous  stomach-ache  "  only  a  week  agone  "; 
and,  as  an  alternative,  that  the  soles  of  her  feet  should  be 
rubbed  with  the  fat  of  a  young  dormouse.  Zetitzka,  upon 
the  divan,  listened  dubiously. 

"  Be  of  good  cheer,"  he  cried,  observing  her  reluctance. 
"  I  know  of  somewhat  that  will  work  a  miracle.  Wait;  I 
return  at  once."  Still  talking,  he  ran  off  on  silent  naked 
feet. 

Zetitzka  awaited  his  return  with  secret  apprehension. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  203 

"What  other  strange  remedies  would  he  propose  ?  Her  feel- 
ing of  constraint  had  by  no  means  passed  away.  In  his 
presence  she  felt  painfully  tongue-tied,  self-conscious,  shy. 
Petros,  too,  had  changed.  His  former  light-heartedness 
had  gone.  It  was  as  if  a  stranger  had  taken  his  place 
— one  older,  graver,  and,  like  herself,  ill  at  ease.  The 
change  depressed  her,  though  she  accepted  it  as  inevitable. 
She  knew  well  it  was  impossible  for  things  to  have  gone 
on  as  before.  Yet  she  could  not  help  offering  up  a  sigh 
to  the  memory  of  the  old,  gay,  frank  comradeship  that 
could  never  be  again. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  again  with  her,  bringing  water 
and  clean  rags. 

"  I  could  not  come  at  it,"  he  apologised,  as  he  set  them 
down  by  her  side;  and  thereupon  explained  that  one  of 
the  relics  in  the  Catholicon — a  bone  of  St.  Thomas — was 
famous  for  instilling  faith  into  unbelievers,  thereby  heal- 
ing them  of  all  ills,  both  temporal  and  spiritual;  but — 
and  his  face  fell — it  was  in  a  case,  of  which  the  Abbot 
kept  the  key,  and  being  the  hour  for  meditation,  the 
venerable  father  must  on  no  account  be  disturbed. 

With  a  hand  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  steady,  he  set 
to  work  to  cleanse  the  wound.  The  blood  had  encrusted 
round  it,  so  that  many  applications  of  the  wet  rag  were 
necessary.  Zetitzka  allowed  him  to  help  her  with  a  troubled 
gratitude.  That  he,  as  well  as  Dimitri,  and  in  much  the 
same  manner,  should  tend  her  wound,  struck  her  as  strange. 
Yet  she  accepted  the  coincidence — as  she  accepted  much  that 
occurred  to  her  during  this  distressful  period  of  her  life 
— with  the  acquiescence  of  an  almost  pathetic  resignation, 
as  though  indeed  she  were  but  a  straw  blown  hither  and 
thither  by  the  breath  of  adverse  destiny. 

They  made  a  strange  picture  in  the  bare  little  cell,  these 
two,  boy  and  girl,  he  bending  over  her,  where  she  lay  upon 
the  couch,  with  anxious  solicitude,  she  raising  her  pale  face 
to  his  with  pathetic  trustfulness,  her  eyes  closed,  her  lips 
compressed. 

Her  nearness  mastered  him.  A  subtle  sweetness,  like  a 
perfume,  emanated  from  her  young  and  wholesome  woman- 
hood. It  intoxicated  him.  The  fear  lest  she  should  notice 
his  agitation  forced  him  to  continue.  But  the  effort  was 
almost  beyond  his  strength. 


204  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

And  again,  as  he  tremblingly  applied  the  rags,  his  eyes 
were  drawn  from  the  wound  to  the  face,  fair  as  a  flower, 
and  upturned  to  his.  And  as  he  gazed,  the  reality,  the  in- 
conceivable reality,  bore  down  upon  him  with  a  disconcert- 
ing newness  of  shock,  for  it  cried  to  him  more  forcibly 
than  any  human  utterance :  "  This  is  a  woman!  " 


CHAPTER  XXX 

LOVE  fell  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue  upon  Petros. 

All  that  had  puzzled,  tantalised,  even  irritated  him,  now 
stood  revealed  in  a  new  light,  rose-tinted,  full  of  wonder 
and  fascination.  "With  bated  breath  he  reviewed  the  past. 
He  stood  aghast  at  the  memory  of  his  former  daring,  was 
filled  with  sudden  remorse  at  the  recollection  of  his  former 
brutality.  He  wondered  at  his  past  self  with  an  immense, 
an  incredulous,  and  at  times  an  awestruck  amazement. 
Sweet  saints!  how  could  he  have  acted  like  that?  If  it 
could  all  happen  again ! 

Nor  did  he  accept  the  metamorphosis  without  frequent 
protests  from  incredulity.  There  were  times  when  it 
seemed  impossible  that  Zetitzka  could  be  anything  but  a 
boy:  even  in  her  presence,  and  while  speaking  to  her,  he 
was  tempted  to  fall  into  the  old  familiar  form  of  address ; 
and  then,  the  truth  striking  him,  he  would  pause  be- 
wildered, under  the  influence  of  his  old  fear,  his  old  super- 
stitious misgivings.  But  as  time  went  on  these  doubts 
became  less  frequent,  and  finally  ceased. 

To  apprehend  in  its  entirety  the  revolution  that  love 
wrought  in  the  life  of  Petros,  it  must  be  remembered  that 
this  seed  of  passion  had  fallen  on  virgin  soil.  All  these 
years  his  capacity  for  love  had  been  steadily  gathering 
power.  It  had  grown  with  his  strength,  ripened  with  his 
manhood.  Monastic  life,  instead  of  starving,  had  in  reality 
fostered  it.  The  society  of  the  aged  and  unattractive  had 
but  made  the  reaction  towards  youth  and  comeliness  the 
more  inevitable.  It  not  only  entered  into,  but  revolution- 
ised his  life.  His  old  boyish  light-heartedness  and  love  of 
fun  gave  place  to  a  serious  outlook,  exaggerated  possibly 
by  his  youth,  but  which  could  never  again  become  the 
thoughtless  gaiety  of  the  past.  It  was,  at  it  were,  a  turn- 
ing-point in  his  existence,  for  all  unconsciously  he  had  beea 
waiting  for  love — and  it  had  come. 

205 


206  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

It  had  come,  but  the  crux  of  the  situation  was  that  he 
did  not  recognise  it.  His  ignorance  of  the  world  of  emo- 
tion, and  in  particular  of  all  that  concerned  the  sexes, 
was  so  profound  that  the  significance  of  what  had  befallen 
him  escaped  him  entirely.  Love?  He  knew  it  by  name, 
for  it  was  daily  on  his  lips.  Was  it  not  an  attribute  of  the 
Deity — a  moral  force  that  permeated  the  world,  linking 
soul  to  soul  in  a  golden  chain  of  prayer  and  self-sacrifice  ? 
Some  vague  ideas  of  married  love,  it  is  true,  hovered 
through  his  brain,  born  of  his  father's  devotion  to  his 
mother;  but  marriage  for  him  was  so  obviously  out  of  the 
question,  that  the  mental  atmosphere  that  made  it  possible 
did  not  exist. 

Still,  this  strange  and  troubling  malady  that  had  so  un- 
accountably attacked  him  preyed  upon  his  thoughts  night 
and  day.  It  affected  his  appetite,  his  sleep,  his  life.  It 
could  not  be  explained  away.  In  an  immense  and  bewilder- 
ing chaos  of  perplexities  one  thing  alone  stood  clear — it 
emanated  from  Zetitzka. 

But  for  what  reason  it  associated  itself  with  her  puzzled 
him  entirely.  He  spent  long  hours  during  the  services 
in  the  Catholicon,  and  alone  in  his  cell,  striving  fruitlessly 
to  understand.  Her  memory  clung  to  him,  even  in  snatches 
of  dreaming  sleep.  When  standing  in  his  stall  between 
Brothers  Nicodemus  and  Gerasimos,  he  could  no  longer  give 
his  attention  to  the  reader,  nor  even  to  the  Abbot.  His 
eyes  strayed  continually  to  the  dark  recess  beyond  the 
Bema  where  Zetitzka  had  been  wont  to  wait.  To  his 
imaginative  mind  it  still  retained  the  haunting,  elusive 
charm  of  her  personality.  When  spoken  to,  he  would  not 
infrequently  forget  even  to  reply. 

Absent  from  her,  and  particularly  during  the  first  two 
days  of  his  passion,  he  made  certain  he  was  possessed  by  a 
devil ;  but  when  with  her,  he  firmly  believed  that  something 
holy  had  happened  to  him — that  he  was  inspired,  that  this 
wonderful  inexplicable  happiness  was  as  divine  in  its  origin 
as  the  tongues  of  fire  that  had  descended  upon  the  Apostles. 
This  latter  belief,  gaining  ground,  obtained  entire  posses- 
sion of  his  mind.  It  was  doubtless  due  to  this,  as  well  as  to 
his  ignorance,  that  while  his  physical  being  responded  in- 
stinctively to  the  summons  of  love,  his  passion  remained 
pure,  ascetic,  spiritual. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  207 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  fever,  the  unrest,  the  longing, 
in  spite  even  of  the  despair  that  came  with  thoughts  of  her 
inevitable  departure,  there  were  moments  that  compensated 
for  everything.  In  these  moments  the  heart  of  Petros 
swelled :  he  breathed  ecstasy ;  everything,  even  the  meanest 
objects,  became  transfigured  by  the  knowledge  of  her  ex- 
istence ;  and  he  went  about  his  monastic  duties  in  the  un- 
speakable radiance  of  some  light  of  his  own,  invisible  to 
other  eyes. 

The  brethren,  though  dulled  by  age,  and  engrossed  in 
their  round  of  trivial  occupations,  remarked  and  wondered 
at  the  change.  Petros  did  not  notice  them,  and  if  he  heard 
the  scraping  of  sandals  when  the  monks  genuflected,  or 
smelt  the  heavy  clinging  odour  of  incense,  or  saw  the  warm 
quivering  stain  of  early  sunlight  falling  athwart  the  gloom 
of  the  sanctuary,  it  was  but  as  a  background  to  the  one 
woman. 

After  the  first  stings  of  remorse,  conscience  ceased  to 
trouble  him,  so  effectually  had  Zetitzka  cast  a  spell  over 
his  soul.  Overwhelmed  in  the  wonder  of  the  present,  he 
rarely  questioned  the  future.  And,  moreover,  so  beautiful 
was  this  experience  in  his  eyes,  so  allied  to  things  divine, 
that  although  he  knew  concealment  to  be  wrong,  he  stifled 
his  conscience  by  the  assurance  that  did  the  Abbot  but  know, 
he,  too,  would  be  filled  with  rapture. 

The  attitude  of  the  Abbot  at  this  period  may  be  judged 
from  the  following  conversation : 

"  He  is  in  there  again,"  mumbled  Brother  Nicodemus, 
jerking  his  thumb  towards  Zetitzka 's  cell. 

"  Ay,"  commented  the  Abbot  blandly,  "  he  cultivates 
holy  obedience. 

"  Even  so,  my  son,"  he  continued,  as  Nicodemus  raised 
sceptical  eyebrows.  "  It  was  at  first  sorely  against  his 
will,  poor  lad.  But  now  have  I  good  hopes.  Youth  is  ever 
a  tonic  to  youth.  We  be  old  men,  and  no  companions  for 

him.  I  remember  well "  And  the  kindly  old  man, 

helping  himself  largely  to  snuff,  told  a  simple  tale  of  his 
own  youth  which  went  far  to  prove  his  case. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  visits  of  Petros  to  Zetitzka  were  more  frequent  than 
even  the  monks  imagined.  The  first  step  taken,  others 
came  easily.  The  boy,  drawn  to  her  irresistibly,  could  not 
keep  away.  She,  too,  came  to  expect  him;  his  visits  were 
to  her  the  only  bright  spots  in  the  long  and  wearisome  days. 
They  wooed  her  from  thought,  from  the  anxiety  that 
haunted  her  when  alone ;  they  gradually  engrossed  her,  and 
became  something  all-sufficing. 

Being  excused  attendance  at  the  Catholicon,  and,  indeed, 
all  monastic  duties,  on  account  of  her  accident,  she  was 
always  in  her  cell  to  welcome  him.  Many  a  quiet  unin- 
terrupted hour  they  had  together.  At  five  o'clock  on  these 
bright  summer  mornings,  the  midnight  services  over, 
Zetitzka  would  hear  the  quick  step  of  the  young  monk 
hastening  along  the  gallery  to  her  cell.  It  never  disap- 
pointed her.  At  eight  o'clock,  after  the  Liturgy,  he 
would  again  return,  for  a  moment  it  might  be,  to  inquire 
how  she  was,  and  to  tell  her  that  breakfast  would  soon 
be  ready;  but,  standing  in  the  doorway,  he  would  often 
forget  the  moments  till  roused  by  the  call  of  the  semantron. 
Then,  in  the  warm  noon,  during  hours  set  apart  for  medita- 
tion, when  the  monastery  was  lapped  in  silence  and  slumber, 
they  would  meet  again — Petros,  with  heavy  eyelids,  sleep- 
oppressed,  but  forgetful  of  all  save  her,  until,  solicitous  for 
his  welfare,  she  would  beg  him  to  seek  rest  in  his  cell. 

At  first  Petros,  keenly  alive  to  the  danger  of  discovery, 
was  full  of  fear  for  her  sake;  but  soon,  rendered  callous 
by  the  obvious  blindness  of  the  brethren,  the  peril  of  the 
situation  ceased  to  trouble  him,  and  he  gave  himself  up 
with  his  whole  heart  to  the  intoxication  of  the  moment. 

The  marvel  of  it  was  with  him  continually.  She  was 
to  all  appearance  the  Angelos  whom  he  had  known,  the 
same  face,  the  same  voice,  the  same  costume;  and  yet  as 
different,  in  the  mental  attributes  which  he  now  imputed 

208 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  209 

to  her,  as  day  is  from  night.  To  his  simple,  credulous  mind 
this  was  nothing  short  of  a  miracle. 

He  awoke  to  her  beauty.  It  spoke  to  him  in  many 
ways.  He  marked  how  it  lighted  the  dingy  cell,  how  it 
had  power  to  make  him  forget  her  surroundings — dear 
saints!  not  her  surroundings  only,  but  the  monastery,  his 
whole  life,  his  duty,  everything!  When  she  smiled,  the 
world  leapt  into  light — when  she  spoke  he  listened  en- 
tranced, as  to  sweetest  music.  Sometimes  in  gazing  at  her, 
as  she  lay  on  her  divan,  all  that  he  had  been  told  about 
women  would  flash  to  his  mind,  causing  a  sudden  boyish 
heat  of  indignation.  By  Saint  Barlaam,  what  lies  it  all 
had  been !  What  wicked  slanders !  In  a  burst  of  young  and 
generous  emotion  he  longed  to  rush  out  and  impart  the 
glad  tidings  to  the  brethren,  and  more  especially  to  the 
Abbot.  They,  too,  had  been  deceived;  they,  too,  might  be 
capable  of  sharing  in  this  incomprehensible  happiness! 

With  reverential  awe  his  eyes  would  wander  round  her 
cell.  Everything  in  it  spoke  of  her,  from  the  couch 
whereon  she  lay,  to  the  basin  on  the  rough  box  that  did  duty 
for  a  washstand.  A  feeling  almost  as  though  he  were  com- 
mitting a  sacrilege  would  come  over  him  as  he  noted  these 
trivial  details,  a  sensation  similar  to  that  which  had  af- 
fected him  long  ago  when  for  the  first  time,  as  a  priest, 
he  had  entered  the  Holy  Doors  and  penetrated  to  the  Bema, 
or  inner  sanctuary.  Fascinated,  in  the  newness  of  his 
adoration,  he  would  hang  upon  her  every  word.  When  she 
fell  silent,  he  would  hunger  for  her  to  speak  again.  Her 
faltering  articulation  of  Greek  and  a  way  she  had  of  pro- 
nouncing the  vowels — a  soft  and  fascinating  sibilation  due 
to  her  Albanian  accent,  a  peculiarity  he  had  scarcely  noted 
before — now  struck  him  as  beautiful.  He  could  listen  to 
her  for  ever.  Even  her  lay  brother's  tunic,  ugly  though 
it  was,  had  become  transfigured.  Could  he  but  have  had 
his  way  he  would  have  clad  her  in  a  robe  of  bright  blue, 
similar  to  that  worn  by  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Still,  even  in 
that  unworthy  masculine  garb,  she  looked  chaste  and  fair 
— without  doubt  because  she  was  a  woman.  More  and 
more  he  held  himself  in  contempt  for  his  former  blindness 
and  stupidity. 

Their  conversation  differed  from  the  tender  and  egotisti- 
cal babble  of  lovers  conversant  with  the  trend  of  their  emo- 
14 


210  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

tions.  Upon  the  part  of  Petros  it  was  a  groping  in  the 
dark,  a  following  of  blind  impulses  acutely  conscious  of  their 
physical  effect,  but  ignorant  as  to  their  purpose;  the  utter- 
ing of  disjointed  and  even  incoherent  things,  things  so 
entirely  unpremeditated  that  they  seemed  to  his  supersti- 
tious mind  to  be  the  voice  of  some  mysterious  power  speaking 
with  his  lips — things  that,  when  he  sought  to  recall  them 
afterwards,  fled  his  memory,  leaving  behind  only  a  pro- 
found self-dissatisfaction,  and  a  mass  of  impressions  con- 
fused, unsystematic,  and  contradictory  as  life  itself. 

Upon  the  part  of  Zetitzka,  hovering  all  unconsciously 
on  the  verge  of  a  dawning  and  involuntary  tenderness,  it 
consisted  mainly  of  a  frank  and  unfeigned  interest  in  his 
life.  She  would  question  him  about  his  work,  take  pleasure 
in  being  told  trivial  details  connected  with  the  services, 
refuse  to  see  in  the  low  moved  voice  of  the  lad,  in  his  sud- 
den fits  of  silence,  in  the  burning  intensity  of  his  gaze, 
an  adequate  reason  for  personal  apprehension.  No  sus- 
picion of  the  goal  towards  which  she  was  hourly  drifting 
crossed  her  mind.  In  the  midst  of  much  that  was  still 
alien  and  full  of  fear,  this  boy  comforted  her.  He  alone, 
of  all  the  monastic  inmates,  knew  her  secret,  and  was  pre- 
pared to  stand  her  friend.  There  were  other  and  more 
personal  reasons  for  her  predilection,  but  Zetitzka  did  not 
realise  them.  More  than  once,  however,  the  fear  lest  in 
being  too  much  with  her  he  was  neglecting  his  duties  caused 
her  to  remonstrate;  but  after  listening  to  his  eager  denial 
and  discovering  that  his  visits  were  in  accordance  with  the 
expressed  wish  of  the  Abbot,  she  said  no  more,  her  silence 
masking  a  sensation  of  vague  though  exquisite  relief  for 
which  she  was  at  a  loss  to  account. 

Not  that  Petros  was  Zetitzka 's  only  visitor  during  these 
days  of  confinement.  The  Abbot,  ever  thoughtful  of  her 
welfare,  would  look  in  daily,  and,  seated  beside  her  upon 
the  low  divan,  would  seek  to  get  in  touch  with  her  inner 
life,  coaxing  her  with  a  gentle  and  kindly  sympathy  into 
the  giving  of  her  confidence.  Little  did  the  aged  priest 
realise  how  near  he  was  at  times  to  the  discovery  of  her 
secret,  for  it  went  to  Zetitzka 's  heart  to  deny  the  good  old 
man  anything,  and  it  was  only  by  a  great  effort  that  she 
remained  irresponsive.  Disguising  his  feelings,  the  Abbot 
would  turn  the  conversation  to  things  temporal.  His 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  211 

ignorance  of  up-to-date  medicine  equalled  that  of  Petros, 
but  he  was  a  firm  believer  in  relics.  His  disappointment, 
when  her  injuries  were  not  miraculously  healed  after  she 
had  been  induced  to  kiss  the  bone  of  St.  Thomas,  was  heart- 
felt. Looking  down,  through  his  great  horn-rimmed  spec- 
tacles, upon  the  obstinate  little  ankle  so  nervously  exposed 
at  his  request,  he  marvelled  immensely. 

Her  greatest  apprehension  was  lest  Stephanos  should 
come  to  see  her.  That  he  had  no  valid  reason  for  so  doing 
— being  neither  of  a  charitable  nor  a  sociable  disposition — 
made  no  difference  to  her  uneasiness.  Many  a  time  did 
her  imagination  torture  her  by  picturing  his  sombre  figure 
darkening  her  doorway — or  his  deep  voice  denouncing  her 
to  the  brethren.  But  her  fears  were  without  foundation. 
The  monk  was  too  absorbed  by  his  own  thoughts,  too  en- 
grossed with  his  austere  life,  to  think  of  one  so  insignificant 
as  a  lay  brother.  Sometimes,  when  her  door  stood  open, 
she  would  see  him  in  the  blaze  of  sunshine  crossing  the 
court — but  he  never  came  near.  It  was  almost  as  though 
he  inhabited  a  different  world.  And  as  day  followed 
day,  lulled  into  fancied  security,  there  were  moments  and 
even  hours  when,  to  her  surprise  and  relief,  Zetitzka  almost 
forgot  him. 

Certain  among  the  brethren,  however,  privileged  to  visit 
the  invalid,  would  drift  in  occasionally.  To  their  simple 
minds  this  accident  was  a  welcome  and  thoughtful  dispensa- 
tion of  Providence.  At  first  the  presence  of  these  old 
monks  embarrassed  Zetitzka,  accustomed  as  she  had  been 
to  privacy  within  her  cell;  but  she  was  made  to  feel — 
more  by  their  manner  than  by  actual  exhortation — that 
this  was  a  sinful  attitude,  and  that  she  should  rejoice 
greatly  in  that  her  perishable  body  could  afford  interest 
to  her  elder  brothers. 

These  old  men  came  in  time  to  have  almost  a  feeling  of 
affection  for  the  sufferer,  who  lay  there  in  seemly  silence, 
gazing  up  at  them  with  embarrassed  eyes.  They  did  their 
best  to  lighten  her  loneliness.  Brother  Philemon  solemnly 
presented  her  with  one  of  his  bulbs  planted  in  a  cracked 
jug.  True,  the  root  in  question  had  unaccountably  defied 
the  laws  of  nature  for  two  years  ' '  come  the  holy  festival  of 
Saint  Panteleemon, "  but — and  here  his  finger  wagged  im- 
pressively over  the  moist  earth  and  his  bleared  eyes 


212  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

lightened — one  never  could  tell  what  wonderful  and  sub- 
terraneous miracle  might  not  be  taking  place  at  that  very 
moment ! 

"  You  think  too  much,"  he  would  say  in  friendly 
remonstrance.  "  Whenever  I  come  in  I  behold  you  think- 
ing. Nay,  'tis  presumptuous!  God  thinks  for  us  all. 
Behold  this  bulb?  Does  it  think?  Not  so,  yet  Solomon  in 
all  his  glory  is  not  to  be  compared  unto  it.  Polycala!  " 
He  scraped  the  object  in  question  with  the  long  black  nail 
of  his  forefinger,  then  in  tones  of  an  almost  incredulous 
admiration,  "  It's  all  in  there!  " 

Brother  Gerasimos,  too,  sought  to  contribute  to  her 
amusement.  He  would  read  her  tit-bits  of  a  gruesome 
nature  from  a  worn  copy  of  the  Neon-Asty,  gloating  over 
them  in  snuffy  awestruck  tones ;  and  as  he  read  slowly  and 
with  difficulty,  the  little  old  monk  would  often  pause  with 
open  mouth  and  eager  eyes,  anticipating  horror  and  creep- 
ing flesh. 

Sometimes  one  brother  would  meet  another  on  the 
threshold  of  her  cell,  and  plunge  straightway  into  some 
time-worn  theological  argument.  Then  would  Zetitzka  be 
forgotten,  and  the  war  of  words  would  fluctuate  in  a  desul- 
tory manner,  ruffling  the  ancient  peace ;  while,  through  the 
open  door,  beyond  their  gesticulating  figures,  Zetitzka  could 
see  the  inner  court  shimmering  in  its  habitual  atmosphere  of 
drowsy  sunlight. 

When  at  last  they  wandered  away  they  left  in  Zetitzka 's 
mind  bewildering  and  contradictory  impressions.  Their 
kindness  and  entire  absence  of  suspicion  were  an  undying 
reproach,  yet  she  could  but  feel  relieved  that  they  had 
gone,  grateful  for  the  silence  that  had  once  seemed  so 
oppressive,  for,  wooed  by  it,  she  could  again  give  herself 
up  to  her  thoughts,  and  listen  undisturbed  for  the  step  of 
Petros. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ONE  day  after  Compline  the  heat  was  greater  than  usual, 
the  air  hung  heavy  even  on  the  heights ;  far  over  the  plain 
of  Thessaly  a  thunderstorm  growled  and  worried. 

Zetitzka  had  been  roused  from  a  restless  and  troubled 
sleep  by  the  entrance  of  Petros.  The  lad  was  pale;  in- 
deed, his  pallor  and  lack  of  appetite  had  become  notice- 
able of  late,  rousing  comments  even  among  the  brethren. 
After  a  few  commonplaces  relating  to  monastic  affairs,  they 
fell  silent.  The  weather  affected  both,  though  neither  gave 
it  a  thought  beyond  remarking  on  the  unusual  heat.  The 
magnetic  tension  in  the  atmosphere  had  affected  the  boy's 
blood;  and  the  low  and  distant  muttering,  as  the  storm 
rolled  sullenly  westwards,  struck  a  sympathetic  note  with 
the  feverish  beat  of  his  heart. 

The  moment  was  full  of  breathless  restraint — troubled 
happiness  quivered  in  the  air;  things  that  suggested  them- 
selves for  speech  seemed  to  either  too  sacred,  too  momen- 
tous, for  words.  Suddenly  it  flashed  to  the  mind  of  Petros, 
with  all  the  illuminating  force  of  an  idea  occurring  for 
the  first  time,  how  ignorant  he  was  of  all  that  concerned  the 
past  of  this  being  who  had  come  to  fill  his  life. 

Stirred,  it  may  be,  by  some  instinct  of  unsatisfied  curi- 
osity and  possibly  of  undefined  envy  for  the  years  that  had 
known  her  and  in  which  he  had  no  share,  he  suddenly  broke 
through  his  reserve,  and  entreated  her  to  tell  him  something 
— anything. 

Zetitzka,  listening  and  watching  from  the  couch,  passed 
a  hand  across  her  eyes.  She  had  been  expecting  such  a 
question — but  not  like  this,  not  put  in  this  tone.  His  eyes, 
his  voice  embarrassed  her,  stirred  something  that  she  had 
never  felt  before,  even  during  her  first  meetings  with 
Stephanos.  Timidly  she  allowed  her  eyes  to  travel  from 
his  sandalled  feet  up  the  stiff  folds  of  his  cassock,  to  his 

213 


214  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

boyish  face,  strangely  moved  and  stamped  with  a  great 
seriousness.     His  expression  touched  her  profoundly. 

Drawing  a  long  breath,  she  looked  upwards  at  the  nig- 
gard light  from  the  window,  then  downwards  at  the  rough 
wooden  boards  that  composed  the  flooring.  The  cell  seemed 
all  at  once  too  small  to  contain  the  feelings  that  were 
stifling  her.  An  imperative  longing  for  freedom  seized  her, 
for  some  great  uninhabited  space  where  she  could  run  away. 
Yet,  even  as  her  mind  formulated  this  wish,  she  was  con- 
scious  of  its  insincerity — for  there  was  fascination,  as  well 
as  danger,  in  this  new  Petros. 

But  this  eager  young  questioner  had  to  be  answered 
Recognising  the  precariousness  of  her  position,  something 
fluttered  in  her  girl 's  heart,  like  a  frightened  bird  in  a  cage. 
Hastily  averting  her  eyes,  she  said: — 

"  I  will  tell  you.    But  not  now.     Perhaps — to-night." 

Feigned  indifference  lent  unintentional  chill  to  the  em- 
barrassed words.  Instinctively  the  boy  drew  back.  Un- 
versed in  woman's  ways,  and  with  the  exaggeration  of 
youth,  he  feared  that  he  had  offended — feared,  too,  that 
he  had  alienated  her,  perhaps  for  ever.  He  longed  to 
speak,  but  dared  not.  And  Zetitzka  all  the  time  lay  there 
with  downcast  eyes,  apparently  unapproachable,  and  lifted, 
as  he  poignantly  felt,  far  above  his  level. 

How  she  had  twined  herself  about  his  heart,  this  moun- 
tain girl !  filling  every  nook  and  cranny  with  the  sweetness 
of  her  personality,  intensely  realised ;  till  for  him  there  was 
nothing  in  the  past,  nothing  in  the  future,  save  the  lumi- 
nous fact  of  her  existence !  And  now  it  was  all  over ! 

What  was  that  ?  It  was  but  a  word,  yet  it  had  power  to 
stop  the  beating  of  his  heart.  Again  ?  Yes.  She  was  ask- 
ing why  he  was  leaving  her.  Leaving  her !  Holy  Mother 
of  God!  He  could  have  laughed  aloud  in  the  glad  re- 
vulsion of  his  feelings.  Then — she  was  not  indifferent? 
She  cared  ?  She  wanted  him !  The  cell  leaped  into  light. 
Joy  deluged  him  with  hope.  With  one  bound  he  reached 
her  side. 

"  Zetitzka!  "he  cried. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  dared  to  pronounce  her 
name — her  real  name,  confided  to  him  in  one  of  their  recent 
interviews.  The  word  rang  in  the  profound  quiet  of  the 
cell.  In  it  was  heard  a  new  note  of  dominance — the  un- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  215 

conscious  strength  of  one  who  trembles,  yet  exults  in  the 
dawn  of  power.  Breathlessly  Zetitzka  listened.  Fear,  ap- 
prehension, reluctance,  passed  swift  as  light  across  the 
shadow  of  her  mind,  paralysed  and  rendered  impotent  by 
a  delicious  weakness  that  drugged  all  other  feelings. 
Slowly,  and  as  one  constrained  thereto,  she  raised  her 
head. 

The  eyes  of  the  girl,  great  and  timid  as  a  stag's,  neither 
black  nor  blue,  grey  nor  violet,  but  all  these  shades  blended 
in  a  soft  and  velvety  darkness,  drew  his  heart  irresistibly 
as  a  magnet.  A  thrill  of  overpowering  emotion,  of  whose 
significance  he  knew  nothing,  overwhelmed  him,  an  un- 
dreamed-of sensation  that  caught  him  up  into  the  zone 
of  things  vital  as  life  and  inexorable  as  death.  He  stood 
before  her,  incapable  of  movement,  his  breast  rising  and 
falling,  unable  to  look  away.  Those  eyes!  Those  eyes! 
They  claimed  his  brain  and  his  heart  together.  Their  look 
seemed  to  him  afterwards,  when  he  was  capable  of  coherent 
thought,  to  be  something  loud  and  stirring,  like  the  voice 
of  the  semantron,  yet  silent,  intense,  penetrating  like  prayer. 
Nay,  more,  to  strike  Ijim  as  with  a  physical  blow.  Had  he 
but  known  it,  these  were  but  the  birth-throes  of  love,  young, 
overwhelming,  incomprehensible;  love  that  comes  but  once 
to  all,  bringing  with  it  delight  and  sorrow,  the  wrench  of 
death  and  the  pang  of  life,  the  agony  of  disseverance  from 
the  old  self,  the  birth  of  the  heart  instinct  with  new  hopes, 
new  fears,  new  desires. 

Zetitzka,  utterly  taken  aback,  was  unable  to  avert  her 
gaze.  She,  too,  could  do  nothing  but  stare,  her  flushed 
face  upturned  to  his,  the  breath  coming  and  going  with 
effort  between  her  parted  lips.  Their  souls  met  and  knew 
each  other  in  that  long,  ardent,  questioning  look.  The 
light  within  Zetitzka 's  eyes  passed  slowly  from  tremulous 
incredulity,  to  a  warmth  of  dawning  responsiveness,  softly 
suffused  and  shining  in  the  twilight  of  the  cell. 

Thus  Destiny  played  artfully  for  this  girl  and  boy.  The 
sorrows  of  the  one,  the  innocence  of  the  other  went  for 
nothing.  Out  of  the  great  world  of  many  millions  of 
human  beings  had  they  been  chosen,  just  these  two,  to 
meet  and  love. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THERE  are  periods  in  the  lives  of  each  one  of  us  that  are 
remembered  only  as  the  shrine  of  an  emotion.  Periods  in 
which  it  may  be  supposed  that  the  body  breathed,  ate, 
slept;  that  the  sun  shone  or  the  earth  was  veiled  in  rain, 
but,  all  unconscious  of  material  things,  the  soul  looks  back 
and  beholds  only  the  heart's  awakening,  the  brightness  and 
the  glamour. 

For  the  few,  these  periods  are  the  prelude  to  happiness, 
the  first  link  in  a  long  chain  of  love,  the  dawn  of  a  cloud- 
less summer  day,  when  the  sun  of  the  heart  fills  every  hour 
with  pure,  deep  joy,  sinking  slowly  at  life's  evening  with 
unabated  fire  to  the  dark  inevitable  horizon.  For  the 
many  they  stand  alone,  blinding,  brief,  a  dream  of  bliss 
too  beautiful  to  last,  welcomed  with  ecstasy,  savoured  with 
rapture,  believed  in  with  passionate  faith,  relinquished  with 
agony,  remembered  with  tears. 

Such  a  period  came  to  Zetitzka. 

Had  she  been  a  girl  with  no  previous  experience  of  life, 
she  would  have  abandoned  herself  to  it  unconsciously,  in- 
stinctively; erring  perhaps  through  ignorance,  drifting 
away  on  the  enchanted  tide. 

But  Zetitzka  was  a  woman.  Her  eyes  had  been  opened. 
Life  had  seared  her  too  deeply  to  make  forgetfulness  pos- 
sible. Shame  and  remorse — her  constant  companions — had 
made  it  their  cruel  industry  to  keep  open  the  wound  in- 
flicted in  the  days  of  her  innocence.  Vowed  to  a  hopeless 
and  unachievable  deed  of  vengeance,  encompassed  by  dan- 
gers, yearning  for  her  child,  harassed  by  fears  and  doubts, 
oppressed  by  the  vicinity  of  Stephanos,  she  of  all  women 
appeared  triple-armed  against  this  weakness  of  the  heart. 
And  yet  her  very  preoccupation  had  paved  the  way  to 
that  heart's  undoing. 

This  that  had  happened  had  come  to  her  unexpectedly. 

216 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  217 

To  say  she  was  taken  aback  gives  but  a  faint  impression 
of  the  complete  shock  of  her  surprise. 

That  Petros,  discovering  her  to  be  a  girl,  would  fall  in 
love  with  her  was  a  contingency  that  had  never  dawned 
upon  her;  his  youthfulness — that  lagged  so  far  behind  his 
years;  as  well  as  his  calling — that  forbade  all  thought  of 
marriage — making  the  supposition  in  the  highest  degree 
improbable. 

Engrossed  with  her  own  anxieties,  she  had  passed  with 
unseeing  eyes  the  boundary-line  where  indifference  merged 
into  liking,  liking  into  affection,  affection  into  love.  To 
his  feelings  for  her  she  had  rarely  given  a  thought.  And 
indeed,  as  long  as  he  had  supposed  her  a  boy,  his  treat- 
ment of  her  had  naturally  given  rise  to  no  suspicion. 
His  behaviour,  during  the  distressful  days  that  followed 
their  visit  to  Lavra  being,  to  her  mind,  fully  accounted  for 
by  the  fact  that  his  conscience  was  laden  with  the  guilt  of 
concealment.  But  now  the  scales  fell  from  her  eyes. 

Her  reception  of  the  truth  surprised  her  no  less  than 
the  truth  itself.  It  complicated  still  further  her  position 
in  the  monastery — God  knows  complicated  enough  already ! 
It  was  so  hopeless — so  ill-advised.  And  yet,  when  it  flashed 
upon  her  through  the  eyes  of  Petros,  her  heart  tremblingly 
welcomed  it  as  one  welcomes  a  dear  and  unexpected  guest 
to  a  desolate  house. 

And  what  wonder,  poor  girl  ?  Zetitzka  would  have  been 
more,  or  less,  than  woman  had  not  a  love  so  pure,  so 
delicate,  so  virginal,  and  so  amazingly  unconscious,  touched 
her  inexpressibly.  In  trenchant  contrast  to  the  debasing 
passion  of  Stephanos,  it  raised  her  to  the  serene  heights 
from  whence  it  came.  It  surrounded  her  with  a  mute  at- 
mosphere of  worship,  and  while  thrilling  her  with  grati- 
tude, yet  stung  her  with  a  pang  of  unworthiness.  More — 
it  restored  her  faith  in  humanity,  and  re-awakened  all  that 
was  best  in  her. 

And  yet  there  was  another  and  a  darker  side,  which 
forced  itself  upon  her  when  she  was  alone,  in  the  silence 
of  her  cell.  It  summoned  to  memory  her  child,  and  the 
vengeance  to  which  she  was  bound ;  it  reminded  her  sternly 
that  Petros  was  a  monk,  and  pointed  out  the  gulf  that  must 
for  ever  yawn  between  them. 


218  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

But  her  heart  again  became  voluble,  silencing  all  hostile 
voices.  Metaphorically,  it  closed  its  ears  to  warnings,  and 
its  eyes  to  consequences.  It  insisted  upon  its  right  to  a 
little  happiness.  The  cup  of  life  held  out  to  her  dry  and 
thirsty  lips  was  too  enchanting.  She  was  so  lonely.  She 
yearned  with  an  inexpressible  craving  for  just  this  love 
and  sympathy;  not  for  the  baser  side  of  passion — her  soul 
sickened  at  the  humiliating  recollection — but  for  the  ideal 
and  spiritual  of  which  her  nature  had  hitherto  been 
starved. 

And  here  was  that  for  which  she  had  been  pining;  here, 
at  her  feet;  here,  in  excess,  offered  spontaneously,  uncon- 
sciously, a  gift  free  and  unconsidered  as  sunshine!  And 
even  as  a  flower,  tempest-tossed  through  the  passage  of 
many  darkened  days,  instinctively  expands  its  petals  to 
sunlight,  so  did  Zetitzka  open  her  heart  to  love. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A  FIRM  step  broke  unexpectedly  upon  the  silence.  The 
old  and  rickety  woodwork  of  the  corridor  creaked  com- 
plainingly.  So  accustomed  was  it  to  being  patted  by  soft 
and  shuffling  footfalls  that  this  free  masterful  stride  made 
every  plank  cry  out. 

Zetitzka,  startled  from  some  dream  of  thought,  listened 
while  the  sound  was  yet  far  off.  Expectation  imparted  a 
fugitive  colour  to  her  face  and  the  light  of  hope  to  her  eyes. 
But  as  the  footsteps  neared,  then  paused,  and  the  sound 
of  conversation  terminating  in  a  gay  laugh  reached  her 
ears,  her  disappointment  voiced  itself  in  a  sigh.  It  was 
only  Dimitri. 

She  had  been  expecting  the  muleteer,  for  something 
told  her  that  he  was  a  man  of  his  word.  But  coming,  as 
he  did,  on  just  this  wonderful  day  of  days,  she  more  than 
half-wished  him  away.  This,  while  he  was  yet  unseen. 
But  when  he  stood  before  her  the  sight  of  his  burly  frame 
and  genial  open  countenance  so  recalled  the  memory  of 
his  former  kindness  that  she  accused  herself  of  ingrati- 
tude. 

Impulsively  she  stretched  out  both  hands,  then  withdrew 
them  nervously. 

Dimitri 's  laugh  was  that  of  a  man  who  seeks  to  conceal 
an  emotion. 

"  How  then!  Am  I  not  worth  a  handshake?  Ah,  that 
is  better!  Well,  how  goes  it?  " 

It  occurred  to  neither  that  his  manner  of  shaking  hands 
might  be  more  gallant  than  was  to  be  looked  for  in  a 
muleteer  accosting  a  lay-brother,  Dimitri 's  grasp  was  of 
a  piece  with  his  personality.  An  unaccountable  feeling  of 
safety  passed  from  his  fingers  through  those  of  Zetitzka. 

"  Well,  how  goes  it?  "  he  repeated  in  a  big  resonant 
voice  tuned  only  to  hills  and  open  air.  As  he  spoke  he 
beamed  upon  her  interrogatively.  Then,  as  though  already 

219 


220  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

answered : — ' '  But  I  need  not  ask.  By  Saint  Barlaam ! 
you  look  better  already.  They  must  be  famous  doctors, 
these  monks." 

Zetitzka  found  nothing  to  say.  But  at  his  words,  and 
more  perhaps  at  his  tone,  which  had  the  warmth  of  an 
ill-disguised  admiration,  into  the  clear  olive  of  her  cheeks 
there  stole  a  flush  of  colour.  This  delicate  heightening  of 
her  complexion  was  like  the  quick  flutter  of  a  danger  signal 
— her  sex  sending  messages  of  distress  along  the  current  of 
her  blood. 

But  it  was  at  her  eyes  that  Dimitri  looked.  "  Where 
the  devil,"  thought  he,  "  did  they  learn  that  look!  "  And 
little  wonder  that  he  stood  amazed,  for  they  were  lumi- 
nous with  a  magical  light  both  soft  and  dreamful;  the 
eyes  of  a  woman  whose  heart  is  whispering  secrets  to  her, 
who  gazes  full  at  some  incredible  happiness  invisible  to 
others. 

The  muleteer  had  thought  much  about  her  since  they 
had  parted  in  the  ravine.  Her  presence  in  Barlaam  still 
puzzled  him  immensely.  A  rollicking  appreciation  of  the 
humour  of  the  situation  still  lurked  in  his  mind — without 
which,  indeed,  he  would  not  have  been  Dimitri — visible 
in  a  half-suppressed  twinkle;  but  as  he  looked  at  her 
lying  on  the  rude  couch,  so  strangely  incongruous  with  her 
surroundings,  incongruous  despite  the  lay-brother 's  costume, 
amusement  was  lost  in  amazement. 

"  By  the  saints!  "  he  blurted  suddenly.  "  If  they  knew 
you  were  a  woman " 

He  broke  off,  instantaneously  aware  of  his  indiscretion. 
For  a  moment  Zetitzka  stared  at  him  aghast.  Then 
Dimitri,  watching  her  intently,  saw  the  warm  colour  in- 
undate even  her  neck.  His  distress  was  as  poignant  as 
hers. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  stammered,  throwing  out  apologetic 
palms.  "  I  did  not  mean — at  least — not  so  soon.  What 
the  devil,  I  am  a  mule !  ' ' 

Zetitzka 's  confusion  abated.  Strange  to  say,  in  the 
midst  of  her  discomposure,  she  experienced  an  unaccount- 
able feeling  of  alleviation,  as  if  the  initiation  of  this  man 
into  her  secret  not  only  relieved  her  of  the  necessity  for 
continual  imposture,  but  somehow,  in  a  vague  indeterminate 
way,  constituted  him  an  ally. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  221 

He  seated  himself  diffidently  at  the  far  end  of  the 
couch. 

His  big  breezy  presence,  his  air  of  exuberant  vitality,  and 
the  bright  colours  of  his  picturesque  costume  seemed 
strangely  out  of  place  in  this  austere  little  cell  which  had 
witnessed  only  thin-blooded  lives  passed  in  mortification 
and  prayer.  Zetitzka,  stealing  a  glance  at  him,  was  as  much 
impressed  with  his  incongruity  in  the  midst  of  these  mo- 
nastic surroundings  as  he  had  been  with  hers. 

"  You  wonder,  doubtless,  how  I  found  out,"  he  went 
on,  his  eyes  directed  to  the  ground.  "  Well,  I  had  my 
suspicions,  yes,  from  the  first.  Look  you,  as  a  rule  a  lay- 
brother  so  young  is  stupid.  Faith !  have  I  not  seen !  He 
says  yes,  and  no,  then  yawns,  and  thinks  of  his  dinner — 
but  you!  .  .  ."  His  arms  expressed  his  lively  appre- 
ciation of  the  difference.  Then,  sinking  his  voice  confi- 
dentially:— "  And  the  other  day  at  Lavra,  when  you 
fell " 

Zetitzka  caught  at  her  breath. 

"  No,  no!  All  was  right.  I  told  no  one,  not  even  my 
little  mother.  Faith  of  a  muleteer!  You  need  not  mind 
— no.  It  was  nothing — nothing!  " 

His  tone  implied  that  the  discovery  of  disguised  damsels 
was  for  him  an  every-day  occurrence. 

' '  And  you  thought  I  had  deserted  you ;  run  away,  eh  ? 
Not  so !  although  I  confess  it  had  the  air  of  it. ' '  He 
chuckled.  "  Think  only  how  droll,  those  old  fellows  ar- 
riving just  then.  In  two  little  minutes  I  would  have  had 
you  safe  in  our  home.  They  had  the  best  of  it  that  time; 
but  you  and  I  will  beat  them  yet.  Faith!  I  would  have 
carried  you  off  under  their  noses,  just — just  for  the  jest 
of  it,  but  there  is  something  about  the  Abbot — a  look — a 
tone — a  something,  that  makes  one  do  his  will." 

He  wagged  his  red  fez  like  a  man  who  wonders,  then, 
producing  a  small  wooden  box,  and  taking  therefrom 
tobacco  and  paper,  began  to  roll  himself  a  cigarette. 

Zetitzka  listened  to  the  facile  current  of  his  talk,  partly 
unheeding,  partly  grateful. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  better,"  he  said  genially;  then,  with 
a  return  of  the  twinkle,  ' '  So  you  live  up  here,  eh  ?  " 

She  assented  dubiously. 

He   struck   a   flint   and   steel   that   he   carried   at   his 


222  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

belt.  The  thin  blue  smoke  drifted  through  the  cell.  It 
hovered  in  filmy  clouds,  slowly  moving,  then  dispersed  and 
became  invisible  against  the  dirty  grey  of  the  walls. 

Awhile  he  continued  to  talk,  outwardly  jovial,  but  in- 
wardly racking  his  brains  for  subjects  of  conversation 
likely  to  put  her  at  her  ease. 

But  to  Zetitzka  his  gay  monologue  came  as  an  echo 
from  an  indifferent  world.  Her  every  thought  was  on  its 
knees  before  this  wonderful  thing  that  had  befallen  her. 
In  spite  of  his  cordiality  and  her  gratitude,  she  almost 
bore  this  man  a  grudge  for  coming  between  her  and  the 
delicious  sea  of  dreams  in  which  she  would  fain  have  lost 
herself.  Motionless  on  the  divan  beside  him,  she  sat  gaz- 
ing at  the  door,  a  rapt  look  on  her  face,  her  head  slightly 
bent  as  though  listening  for  the  sound  of  a  voice.  Dimitri 
pursed  his  lips,  then  elevated  his  eyebrows. 

"  And  now,"  he  rubbed  his  palms  together,  "  can  I  be 
of  any  service?  Only,"  he  added  hastily,  "  only  if  you 
wish  it.  If  not,  in  God's  name  let  us  speak  of  some- 
thing else.  As  for  me,  I  like  to  talk  of  anything — any- 
thing. ' '  He  stroked  his  chin ;  then,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who,  in  justice  to  himself,  considers  an  explanation  neces- 
sary, f<  Look  you,  when  one  passes  all  day  with  a  silent 
person  like  Nikola,  one  talks  for  two — or  becomes  a  mule. ' ' 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  this  time  in  whimsical 
protest  against  such  an  unpleasant  metamorphosis.  Then, 
with  an  unusually  bashful  glance  at  the  silent  girl  beside 
him,  "  I  say — you  don't  know  how  I — how  I — by 
thunder!  "  he  smacked  a  muscular  leg.  "  Even  if  per- 
mitted, not  a  woman  in  Kalabaka  would  climb  these  lad- 
ders, or  try  to  live  up  here  with  these  monks.  They  would 
be  terrified,  I  give  you  my  word — I,  who  have  heard  them 
talk.  But  you — it  is  easily  seen  you  are  of  the  moun- 
tains. ' ' 

Finding  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  Zetitzka  nodded  slightly. 

"  Women  are  not  welcomed  up  here  as  they  merit. 
"What  will  you?  "  His  gesture  apologised  for  defective 
hospitality;  then,  waving  his  whip,  "  You  did  not  come 
for  the  pleasure  of  this?  No,  I  believe  you.  Peste:  'tis 
bare  as  a  licked  plate.  I  could  have  given  you  better  at 
my  house — much." 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  "  my  mother  was  disappointed. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  223 

I  told  her;  but  not  all.  You  should  have  heard  her  scold. 
She  wanted  to  see  you — to  nurse  you.  She  is  full  of 
curiosity  about  the  monks.  She  pities  them.  If  a  woman 
may  not  give  her  care,  she  gives  her  pity.  She  will  give 
something!  .  .  .  Few  people  come  up  here,"  he  con- 
tinued, after  a  pause.  "  Pilgrims,  friars,  hermits,  and 
such  quaint  folk.  Travellers,  too — last  season  I  brought 
no  less  than  five.  They  pay  well,  these  animals — twenty 
pesetas  a  day.  We  do  the  round  of  all  the  monasteries — 
Kalabaka  and  back,  but,  you  understand,  nothing  regular ; 
were  it  not  for  the  carrier  business  I  would  be  badly  off. 
I  come  up  here  also  to  see — by  the  way,  what  has  hap- 
pened to  him?  ". 

"  Who?  "  asked  Zetitzka  in  surprise. 

"  Brother  Petros." 

She  felt  herself  trembling. 

"  'Tis  passing  strange,"  he  grumbled,  more  to  himself 
than  to  her.  "  I  thought  I  knew  the  lad  like — like  my 

pocket,  and  yet  to-day,  in  the  cloisters "  He  turned 

abruptly  to  the  girl,  who  was  striving  to  master  her  agita- 
tion. "  Why  would  he  not  speak  to  me?  Oh,  he  answered, 
but  only  a  word,  he  who  as  a  rule  cannot  find  time  for 
all  his  chatter.  Can  he  be  sickening  for  an  illness,  eh? 
What  think  you?  You  have  a  woman's  wits;  you  see  him 
often?  " 

"I— I  don't  know." 

"  Is  he— is  he  off  his  food?  " 

"  We  do  not  eat  together — now." 

"  No — o,"  he  scratched  his  head.  "  No,  I  suppose  not. 
And  yet — he  thinks  you  a  boy — he  might  have — curse  the 
monasteries!  It  may  be  some  pious  fit — but  'tis  so  un- 
usual. Now  I — were  he  not  a  monk,  I  would  say — 

She  waited  anxiously. 

"  I  would  say  he  was  in  love,  but  " — he  laughed  in- 
credulously—" that  is,  of  course,  impossible." 

She  could  hardly  control  herself.  How  much  did  he 
know?  How  much  did  he  only  guess?  He  frightened 
her,  so  apparently  outspoken;  yet  perhaps  some  dark  de- 
sign lurked  beneath  his  words. 

"Well!"  he  beamed  upon  her.  "It  appears  'tis  I 
who  talk." 

Forced  into  speech,  she  could  only  murmur  confusedly. 


224  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

His  eyebrows  arched  with  unfeigned  astonishment,  then, 
eyeing  her  with  a  return  of  the  old  involuntary  twinkle, 
1 '  Nothing  to  say  ?  Lord !  what  a  wife  you  would  make !  ' ' 

A  pain  shot  to  Zetitzka 's  heart.  His  words  harrowed 
her — suggested  possibilities.  For  a  wistful  moment  she 
allowed  herself  to  picture  existence  as  it  might  have  been 
had  the  man  who  loved  her  been  free  to  marry.  Dimitri, 
his  eyes  averted,  felt,  rather  than  saw,  her  distress.  It 
made  him  indignant,  combative,  conscious  of  his  impo- 
tence to  help.  He  understood  also,  and  sympathised  with 
her  natural  reluctance  to  take  a  stranger  into  her  confi- 
dence. "  If,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "  if  I  can  get  her  to 
tell  me  without  telling,  the  rest  will  become  my  affair. ' ' 

Full  of  this  plan,  he  began  to  speak  in  a  pleasantly 
discursive  manner — the  manner  of  one  who  talks  for  the 
pleasure  of  utterance,  rather  than  for  audition.  He 
touched  on  Albanian  inns,  the  price  of  wines,  inferior  fod- 
der, and  other  topics  well  within  the  range  of  his  expe- 
rience. Deceived  by  his  apparent  artlessness  and  relieved 
by  the  change  of  subject,  Zetitzka  threw  off  by  degrees 
much  of  her  reserve  and  even  volunteered  remarks  about 
the  dear  familiar  land  of  her  birth.  The  muleteer  listened 
with  gravity,  his  curiosity  well  under  control.  But  when 
Zetitzka  was  lured  into  mentioning  her  journey,  he  made 
a  mistake.  For  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  repress  a 
swift  gleam  of  dawning  comprehension.  Zetitzka  saw  it, 
and  became  dumb. 

"  You  were  about  to  say?  "  suggested  Dimitri 
pleasantly. 

She  shot  a  swift  and  troubled  glance  at  him. 

' '  Nothing, ' '  she  said ;  then,  ashamed  of  her  ungracious- 
ness, she  continued  in  a  low,  hurried  voice,  "  I  know  not 
why  I  told  you  all  this.  I  mean — to  you  it  can  be  noth- 
ing." 

Her  words,  and  still  more  her  expression,  struck  Dimitri 
with  self-reproach.  They  made  him  aware  of  his  strength 
and  her  weakness.  Springing  from  the  couch,  he  stood 
before  her. 

11  Do  not  think  that  I  wish  to  force  you  to  tell  me," 
he  cried.  ' '  No — God  forbid !  I  seek  to  find  out  only 
because  I  wish  to  befriend  you.  Look  you,  to  help,  one 
must  know,  not  guess.  You  are  in  trouble :  I  can  see  that 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  225 

much,  though  what  it  is,  the  devil  take  me  if  I  know! 
Perhaps  I  have  spoken  too  soon.  Well,  I  can  wait.  One 
day  you  may  require  a  man  who  has  a  strong  arm.  Now  ' ' 
— his  voice  changed  to  sudden  gruff  ness — "  I  wonder  much 
what  that  little  she-devil  of  a  Nikola  is  doing?  " 

Something  rose  in  Zetitzka's  throat.  Her  eyes  again 
sought  his  face,  but  he  was  studiously  inspecting  the  lash 
of  his  whip. 

"  The  last  time  I  came  here,"  he  went  on,  with  an 
appreciative  grin,  "  she  dragged  a  boulder  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  I  found  her  with  her  forelegs  tied  to  her  obstinate 
little  neck — for  all  the  world  like  a  trussed  fowl.  And 
then — what  think  you?  She  had  the  impertinence  to  look 
at  me,  as  who  should  say,  *  You  see  this?  'Tis  all  your 
fault. '  Just  like  a  woman !  They  are  all  alike,  bless  their 
hearts !  Ah,  well !  I  must  be  going.  Good-bye. ' ' 

He  stood  before  her,  a  broad-shouldered  figure  that 
seemed  to  fill  the  cell,  flicking  carelessly  with  his 
whip. 

Zetitzka  longed  to  speak.  This,  man  had  said  little 
and  done  less  to  materially  assist  her,  yet  during  the 
short  time  she  had  known  him  he  had  inspired  her  with 
confidence.  The  bluff  and  manly  directness  of  his  prof- 
fered friendship  had  touched  her  more,  perhaps,  than  she 
was  aware.  His  very  presence,  and  a  certain  breezy  open- 
air  sanity  about  him,  lulled  her  fears.  And  now  he  was 
going  away!  With  a  sudden  reaction  she  blamed  herself 
for  her  foolish  reticence.  Friends  were  none  so  common 
in  her  friendless  life  that  she  should  shrink  from  the  con- 
fession that  would  once  and  for  all  put  his  sincerity  to  the 
test.  For  very  little  she  would  now  have  told  him  all — 
have  besought  his  assistance — but  he  did  not  again  ques- 
tion her. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  and  smiled. 

She  forced  herself  to  return  his  smile. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  again;  then,  answering  the  look 
in  her  eyes :  "  It  rests  with  you. ' ' 

She  hesitated.  Her  teeth  impressed  her  under-lip. 
Again  the  old  involuntary  shrinking,  that  was  stronger 
than  her  will,  beset  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured.     Then,  nervously  changing  the 
subject:  "  I  heard  you  laugh  as  you  came  in." 
15 


226  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Whimsical  amusement  at  her  vacillation  lurked  for  a 
moment  in  his  eyes;  then,  falling  in  with  her  humour: 
"  Yes,  I  laughed;  but  only  at  Nicodemus.  I  pretend  to  be 
an  infidel,  just  to  see  him  spit.  It  always  succeeds.  To- 
day he  called  me  a  green  bay-tree,  and  hoped  to  be  present 
at  the  burning !  He  has  called  me  so  many  bad  names,  all 
taken  from  Holy  Writ,  that  he  is  somewhat  at  a  loss  now. 
But  green  bay-tree  was  good.  Old  Gerasimos  now,  is 
friendly.  He  told  me  the  news." 

"  What  news?  "    Zetitzka  spoke  with  indifference. 

"  You  may  well  ask,  you  who  know  their  lives.  If  one 
of  them  sneezes,  'tis  an  event.  Let  me  see!  Well,  for 
one  thing,  that  surly  one — you  know  him,  Brother  Steph- 
anos— is  going  away. ' ' 

Her  expression  arrested  him.  Unable  to  conceal  her 
feeling,  she  could  only  stare ;  but  her  wide  eyes  and  parted 
lips  spoke  for  her. 

Dimitri  returned  her  stare.  For  a  moment  there  was 
silence;  then  Zetitzka  recovered  herself. 

"  He  goes  away,  you  said?  "  She  could  not  keep  the 
note  of  relief  from  her  voice. 

"  Yes." 

"  For— for  always?  " 

"  No :  for  perhaps  a  week. ' ' 

A  shadow  darkened  her  face.     Dimitri  continued: 

"  They  tell  me  'tis  a  penance  set  him  by  the  Abbot. 
Gerasimos  was  full  of  the  wonder  of  it.  Up  here  they 
think  him  a  kind  of  saint,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  Her  upper  lip  curled,  though  there 
was  but  little  scorn  in  her  nature.  He  paused  a  moment 
in  surprise,  then  continued: 

"  'Tis  said  the  Abbot  sends  him  to  collect  rents  from 
the  farms.  By  the  saints!  'tis  a  jaunt,  and  no  penance! 
Lord!  "—he  struck  at  his  boot — "  they  are  droll  fellows, 
these  monks!  " 

A  silence  ensued.  Zetitzka  sat  with  unseeing  eyes  fixed 
on  the  opposite  wall.  Dimitri  did  not  again  look  at  her. 

"  When  does  he  start?  "  she  asked  at  length,  in  a  voice 
so  low  that  the  muleteer  was  forced  to  strain  his  ears. 
'  To-day,  I  believe." 

' '  Did  ' ' — under  cover  of  her  tunic  her  hands  trembled — 
"  did  Brother  Gerasimos  say  what  he  had  done?  " 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  227 

"  But,  no.  'Tis  doubtless  something  foolish,  some  trifle 
— eaten  too  much,  or  slept  too  long.  What  a  life !  I  asked 
him,  but  the  wily  old  rat  said  it  was  a  secret  of  the  con- 
fessional. That  was  because  he  did  not  know  himself." 

Before  either  could  speak  again,  the  sound  of  footsteps 
came  from  the  corridor.  They  both  listened. 

"  Well,"  said  Dimitri,  "  I  must  go.  I  have  left  two 
bags  of  charcoal  in  the  tower  of  the  windlass.  Good-bye. 
Be  brave ;  but  ' ' — he  looked  at  her — ' '  no  need  to  say  that. ' ' 

A  little  of  the  admiration  that  he  strove  to  conceal  be- 
came visible  in  his  bronzed  face.  More:  as  he  paused, 
reluctant  to  leave  her,  a  wistful  expression,  almost  timid, 
and  strangely  foreign  to  him,  came  into  being.  But  with 
eyes  fixed  eagerly  upon  the  door,  Zetitzka  sat  motionless, 
oblivious  to  all  save  the  footsteps  that  momentarily  drew 
near. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

DUSK  had  fallen  before  Stephanos  came  to  take  leave 
of  the  Abbot.  The  courtyard  was  full  of  twilight  that  was 
clear  and  yet  opaque,  like  deep  water.  The  huddle  of 
monastic  buildings  loomed  dark  against  the  dying  rose  and 
green  of  the  after-glow.  The  sense  of  solemnity  was 
augmented  by  the  waning  light.  It  glimmered  home  to 
the  eyes  in  mysterious  shapes,  and  spoke  to  the  ears  in 
a  silence  that  knew  of  no  interruption.  A  sense  of  vague 
expectancy  brooded  over  the  monastery.  The  solemnity 
appeared  to  have  affected  it  also.  No  stir  of  life  came 
from  the  deserted  cloisters.  All  was  quiet  in  the  dark  re- 
fectory. Even  the  little  rocky  platform,  seen  through  the 
doorless  arch  that  led  to  the  outer  court,  was  desolate, 
perched  on  the  brink  of  fearless  declivities,  alone  with  the 
silence  and  the  night. 

Stephanos  found  the  Abbot  in  his  cell.  The  old  man 
did  not  hear  his  knock,  nor  when  Stephanos,  fancying  him- 
self invited  to  enter,  lifted  the  latch  and  stood  before  him, 
did  he  open  his  eyes. 

For  a  while  the  monk,  restrained  by  a  feeling  of  respect, 
remained  motionless,  watching  his  superior.  The  Abbot, 
seated  on  his  couch,  appeared  overcome  by  the  heat. 
White  and  frail,  he  leant  against  the  wall,  his  head  tilted 
forward — his  customary  attitude  in  sleep,  for,  like  many 
a  holy  father  the  tale  of  whose  austerities  had  come  down 
to  his  descendants  as  a  blessed  example,  the  Abbot  rarely, 
if  ever,  lay  prone  upon  his  couch.  When  the  heaviness 
of  thwarted  slumber  overpowered  him,  he  would  merely 
close  his  eyes  for  a  few  minutes,  scarcely  losing  con- 
sciousness. This  relaxation  occurred  sometimes  at  meals, 
sometimes  during  meditation,  but  never  at  devotions. 

"  Holy  vigils,"  he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  in  exhorta- 
tion, "  purify  and  enlighten  the  soul.  Blessed  angels  keep 
company  with  those  who  watch  and  pray. ' ' 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  229 

In  spite  of  the  air  of  exhaustion  noticeable  in  his  atti- 
tude, such  infinite  peace,  such  calm  abstraction,  such  spirit 
shining  through  matter  was  to  be  observed  in  the  Abbot's 
countenance  that  Stephanos  felt  a  pang  of  envy.  It 
seemed  to  mock  him  with  the  unattainable,  and  thrust  him 
back  remorselessly  into  darkened  places,  unvisited  by 
hope. 

All  at  once  the  aged  priest  opened  his  eyes. 

"Is  all  ready?  "  he  questioned,  raising  his  thin  hand 
in  benediction. 

Yes,  venerable  father." 

You  have  the  papers  and  the  wallet?  " 

Yes." 

And  somewhat  to  eat  upon  the  road  ?  ' ' 

I  shall  not  need  it." 

The  Abbot  looked  at  the  gaunt  figure  standing  before 
him — looked  with  sadness  and  compassion,  for  this  journey 
had  been  arranged  in  order  to  isolate  the  monk  until  his 
sentence  should  arrive.  "  Poor  troubled  soul!  "  thought 
the  old  man;  but  aloud  he  only  drew  attention  to  the  fact 
that  the  monk  had  forgotten  his  sandals.  Stephanos  ex- 
cused himself.  He  wished,  he  said,  to  be  permitted  to 
travel  barefoot.  The  Abbot  gave  his  permission,  remark- 
ing at  the  same  time  upon  a  cut  on  one  of  the  monk's  feet, 
and  advising  him  to  recommend  it  to  Saint  Barlaam. 

The  talk  then  turned  upon  the  various  farms  which  the 
monk  was  about  to  visit,  his  superior  telling  him  somewhat 
of  the  tenants  and  the  manner  in  which  they  were  to  be 
approached.  He  further  cautioned  him  as  to  his  behaviour 
when  in  the  world,  and  of  the  necessity  for  being  ever 
watchful  to  keep  up  the  monastic  reputation. 

Stephanos,  his  eyes  downcast,  made  no  comment. 

"  You  have  one  great  safeguard,"  continued  the  Abbot, 
not  without  approval.  "  You  speak  little.  The  recluse 
Theonas  passed  thirty  blessed  years  without  speaking  at 
all." 

Stephanos  muttered  inaudibly  into  his  beard. 

"  Journeys  are  serious  things,"  continued  the  Abbot, 
shaking  a  wise  head — "  serious  things,  and  not  to  be 
lightly  undertaken.  The  world  is  so  large.  But  our 
dear  Lord  Jesus  Christ  journeyed  in  it  continually;  'tis  a 
boon  to  follow  in  His  sweet  footsteps." 


230  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Pleased  with  the  ingenuity  of  the  argument,  he  took 
a  prodigious  pinch  of  snuff. 

But  Stephanos  gnawed  the  ragged  ends  of  his  moustache. 
His  fear  of  this  journey  was  very  real.  In  the  monastery 
he  was  tortured,  but  safe;  beyond  its  precincts  he  was 
exposed  to  mortal  sin.  His  prayers  and  supplications  had 
been  of  no  avail:  he  had  little  faith  in  his  powers  of  re- 
sisting temptation.  But  the  night  before  he  had  been 
forced  to  scourge  himself  in  order  to  overcome  sinful 
thoughts.  Zetitzka  had  appeared  to  him  in  a  dream, 
tempting  him,  and  it  had  needed  the  most  violent  effort 
of  his  will  to  tear  himself  from  slumber.  She  might  be 
somewhere  in  the  world  he  was  about  to  visit.  The  thought 
nearly  overcame  him.  He  trembled  with  terror,  unreason- 
ing fanatical  anger,  and  the  fear  of  a  passion  fettered  but 
not  killed. 

"  You  have  my  permission  to  speak,"  said  the  old  man, 
noting  his  agitation.  But  Stephanos  still  kept  silent.  It 
needed  but  little  perception  to  divine  the  emotions  that 
were  rending  him,  for  there  was  something  ominous  in  his 
speechlessness. 

"  It  is  my  will  that  you  go,"  continued  the  Abbot  with 
firmness.  "  Remember  that  it  is  part  of  your  penance. 
It  is  my  will,  likewise,  that  upon  your  return  to  Barlaam 
you  keep  silence,  save  at  prayer  and  divine  service,  until 
such  time  as  I  grant  you  permission  to  speak.  I  will  in- 
form the  brethren,  that  they  tempt  you  not  to  disobedience. 
Now  " — he  rose  to  his  feet — "  come,  my  son.  I  will  speed 
you  on  your  way." 

Stephanos  stood  for  a  moment  as  though  he  had  not 
heard,  for  the  blood  rushing  to  his  head  made  him  dizzy. 
His  strength,  sapped  by  cruel  fasts  and  long  vigils,  proved 
unequal  to  the  tasks  imposed  upon  him.  Only  inner  fires 
sustained  him,  while  preying  continually  upon  his  peace 
of  mind. 

Together  the  two  men  left  the  dormitories,  taking  the 
key  of  the  trap-door  with  them.  Neither  spoke.  It  was 
as  though  both  consciously  kept  silent,  moved  thereto  by 
the  surrounding  gloom,  and  by  an  inexplicable  feeling  of 
finality  that  cast  its  shadow  over  this  farewell. 

At  the  moment  of  departure  Stephanos  kissed  the  hand 
of  his  superior.  The  Abbot  blessed  him  in  a  low  moved 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  231 

voice,  commending  him  to  God  and  the  company  of  the 
Blessed  Saints. 

Looking  into  the  dark  abyss,  the  monk  was  again  at- 
tacked by  a  feeling  of  dizziness.  Mastering  this  weakness, 
resolute,  and  with  a  scornful  expression,  he  began  the 
descent.  The  Abbot,  leaning  over  the  ladders,  watched 
him  as  he  descended  from  rung  to  rung,  until  the  dark- 
ness hid  him  from  sight.  Still  the  old  man  stood,  strain- 
ing his  eyes  into  the  gorge,  his  lips  moving  mechanically. 

This  parting  saddened  him.  His  great  hopes  concern- 
ing the  future  of  Stephanos  had  been  cast  down.  In  that 
apparent  strength  of  will,  that  fierce  desire  for  abnega- 
tion, that  frenzied  eloquence,  he  had  seen  the  makings 
of  a  great  preacher — a  saint — a  torch  new-lit  by  God 
Himself.  Now,  alas!  he  saw  nothing,  and  feared  much. 
His  fears — for  the  shadow  of  the  anticipated  instructions 
from  Trikala  was  with  him  continually — grew  in  the 
silence  and  the  darkness  until  they  touched  his  own  life. 
At  such  moments  of  dejection  the  rumour  that  the  mon- 
asteries of  Meteora  would  one  day  be  given  over  to  con- 
victs was  in  the  habit  of  coming  to  him,  a  nightmare 
arousing  deep  and  unavailing  regret.  It  came  to  him 
now. 

Acting  under  an  imperative  desire  to  see  the  beloved 
buildings,  so  threatened,  he  groped  his  way  to  the  door 
of  the  hut.  There  they  were.  The  starlight  shed  its 
lustre  upon  them.  In  dim  solemnity  they  stood  out,  the 
arcades,  the  refectory,  the  cloisters,  the  dormitories,  the 
old  walls  that  had  stood  for  seven  centuries,  the  dome  of 
the  Catholicon  watching  over  all. 

The  eyes  of  the  Abbot  grew  dim.  It  was  his  beautiful 
home  and  he  loved  it.  Was  it  indeed  true,  as  some  said, 
that  "  everything  in  the  ancient  monasteries  was  dying, 
save  Christ  in  the  tabernacle  ' ' ;  that  the  monks  no  longer, 
as  in  the  first  centuries,  "  co-operated  with  the  vital 
energies  of  nature,  while  they  praised  God  in  song  "? 
With  a  great  desire  to  discover  the  truth,  he  searched  his 
memory,  questioning  conscience  tremblingly,  with  a  fer- 
vent prayer  for  guidance.  But,  painfully  aware  of  many 
personal  shortcomings,  the  Abbot  could  yet  find  no  flaw  in 
the  system.  To  him  all  seemed  well  and  as  it  had  been 
throughout  the  ages.  Dying  ?  Nay.  The  spirit  of  prayer 


232  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

was  alive  as  it  had  been  from  the  beginning,  as  it  would 
be  to  the  end.  The  monastery,  too,  was  alive,  doubly  alive, 
as  it  seemed  to  him  in  that  hour  of  silence  and  of  stars. 
Its  ancient  stones,  that  had  watched  so  many  holy  lives 
till  they,  too,  partook  in  mystic  religious  communion  of 
the  love  and  longing,  the  groans  and  prayers  that  had 
risen  night  and  day,  now  appealed  to  him  with  the  pathos 
of  the  inarticulate.  "  Help  us!  "  they  seemed  to  cry. 
"  Without  thee  are  we  lost!  " 

"  0  merciful  God,"  prayed  the  Abbot  inwardly,  "  my 
life  for  theirs,  if  it  be  Thy  will." 

His  thoughts  returned  to  Stephanos — his  poor  tormented 
son  wandering  in  the  darkness  on  the  mountains.  For 
him  also  he  prayed,  in  silent  renunciation,  humbly  relin- 
quishing his  own  desires. 

As  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  profound  vault  of  heaven, 
a  star  fell  from  the  zenith.  The  old  man  watched  it  with 
(superstitious  awe.  What  might  it  portend?  To  avert 
possible  evil,  he  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

Still  under  the  influence  of  what  he  had  seen,  he  was 
about  to  cross  the  courtyard  when  an  unexpected  sound 
brought  him  to  a  standstill. 

' '  Who  is  there  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  It  is  I,"  replied  the  voice  of  Petros. 

"  Blessed  saints!  You  startled  me.  Why  are  you  not 
in  your  cell  ?  ' ' 

' '  I  could  not  sleep,  venerable  father. ' ' 

A  note  of  dreaming  happiness  in  the  young  monk's  voice 
struck  the  Abbot  as  remarkable.  Such  accents  surely  ac- 
corded rather  with  one  visited  by  angels  than  with  one 
possessed  by  a  devil.  In  much  perplexity  he  peered  into 
the  young  face,  but  his  eyes  were  feeble,  and  could  see 
nothing  clearly  in  the  obscurity. 

Side  by  side  they  slowly  crossed  the  court. 

"  And  how  is  Angelos  to-night?  "  questioned  the  Abbot. 
"  It  was  in  my  mind  to  visit  him  this  morning,  but  finding 
Dimitri  coming  out  of  his  cell,  I  feared  to  weary  him. ' ' 
'  He  was  much  better  this  afternoon." 

"  That  is  well.  Thanks  are  due  to  Saint  Ann,  for  I 
took  our  holy  relic  of  that  most  devout  and  blessed  among 
women  into  the  lad's  cell  last  night.  Poly  cola  I  We  will 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  233 

burn  two  fine  wax  candles  before  her  icon.  See  to  it,  my 
son." 

Petros  did  not  answer. 

"  He  is  a  good  lad,"  continued  the  Abbot,  his  thoughts 
still  with  the  invalid.  "  Patient  under  tribulation,  of  a 
silent  yet  submissive  mind ;  truly  an  example  to  us  all. ' ' 

Petros  listened  with  attention.  It  gave  him  keen 
though  guilty  pleasure  to  hear  praises  of  Zetitzka. 

"  And  you,  my  son,  I  notice  that  you  are  much  with 
him.  I  have  said  naught,  but  it  hath  pleased  me  mightily 
— yea,  mightily.  Holy  obedience  is  ever  grateful  unto 
God.  Full  well  I  wot  that  it  hath  been  a  hard  matter  to 
accomplish. ' ' 

"  No,  no!  "  protested  Petros. 

"  Ay,  but  I  fear  it;  yet  is  it  not  without  goodly  result. 
Behold!  I  see  a  difference  in  you  already.  'Tis  true. 
Now,  tell  me :  have  you  found  out  aught  about  him  ?  ' ' 

Petros  came  to  a  sudden  standstill  beneath  the  branches 
of  the  fig-tree.  His  conscience  leapt  in  fear  to  his  face. 

"  I  wish  not  to  pry  into  confidences,"  went  on  the 
kindly  voice  by  his  side,  "  yet  fain  would  I  know  more 
about  the  lad.  He  is  young — a  mere  boy,  and  strangely 
reticent.  His  mother  must  needs  be  anxious.  Does  he 
speak  of  her?  " 

«  No— o." 

"No?  That  is  strange.  Yet  has  he  not  forgotten  her, 
of  that  I  feel  sure.  Last  night  I  entered  his  cell  while 
he  slept.  His  beauty  amazed  me.  I  hope  he  is  happy. 
There  were  tears  on  his  eyelids — and  yet,  he  smiled.  And 
so  he  has  told  you  naught?  " 

"  He — he  has  promised  to  tell  me  somewhat.  I  go  to 
him  now." 

"Go  in  Christ's  name,  my  son.  Full  of  joy  am  I  to 
find  that  you  follow  where  the  sweet  Master  leads." 

"  O  venerable  father!  " 

The  protesting  cry  arrested  the  Abbot. 

"  What  aileth  you,  my  son?  " 

"  Speak  not  thus  kindly.  Every  word  hurteth.  I  am 
unworthy.  Yet  is  it  something  beautiful.  At  times  I 
long  to  tell  you — and  at  times  I  fear  that  if  you  knew  you 
would  never  forgive." 


234  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  Christ  knows,  yet  is  He  ever  ready  to  forgive." 

"  Have  patience,  only  have  patience!  "  Petros'  voice 
shook.  Then  the  imminent  departure  of  Zetitzka  flashing 
across  him  with  a  terrible,  immitigable  sense  of  loss,  he 
continued  passionately,  recklessly : 

"  It  will  not  be  for  long  now.  Only  a  few  days.  Then 
all  will  be  over.  My  God!  My  God!  "  He  wrung  his 
hands  in  a  burst  of  uncontrollable  despair.  * '  She  is  going 
away!  " 

"  She!  Alack!  this  is  indeed  the  frenzy  of  madness. 
She!  In  the  name  of  the  dear  Lord,  whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  know  not.    Nay,  God  forgive  me.     I  do  know,  but 

I  may  not  tell.     I — I Oh,  heed  me  not !    I  know  not 

what  I  say.     O  my  father,  I  am  miserable!  " 

Broken  down  by  the  violence  of  his  emotions,  he  clung 
to  the  old  man's  arm.  Anxiety  filled  the  Abbot's  heart. 
He  attached  no  importance  to  the  wild  words.  His  every 
thought  was  taken  up  with  the  fact  that  Petros,  his  little 
son,  his  best  beloved,  was  still  tormented  by  the  devil. 

For  some  time  he  spoke  to  the  young  monk.  In  all 
he  said  there  rang  the  note  of  hope,  and  of  a  faith  that 
was  firm  as  the  rock  upon  which  Barlaam  was  built. 
Whatever  his  personal  troubles,  his  speech  hinted  not  at 
them;  all  were  thrust  out  of  mind  by  the  eager  desire  to 
comfort.  But  his  words  were  unheeded.  To  Petros  they 
remained  mere  empty  sounds,  scarce  reaching  his  ears, 
much  less  penetrating  his  heart. 

"  All  will  assuredly  come  right,"  concluded  the  Abbot, 
in  a  tone  of  gentle  and  happy  optimism.  "  Have  I  not 
prayed  for  it?  Do  not  I  know?  Age  has  its  privileges 
likewise.  It  can  see  farther.  Youth  is  still  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  ladders,  but  it  thinks  it  is  at  the  top.  When  I 
was  young  I  was  in  great  fear  lest  God  would  refuse  my 
one  desire.  I  trembled,  knowing  full  well  my  unworthi- 
ness.  But  He  overlooked  it;  and  behold — I  am  an  Ab- 
bot!" 

Petros,  who  had  straightened  himself,  made  no  move- 
ment. The  aged  priest,  still  in  the  past,  smiled  con- 
tentedly to  himself  in  the  little  starlight  that  found  its  way 
beneath  the  branches  of  the  fig-tree. 

'  Venerable  father."     The  boy's  voice  came  low  and 
agitated. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  235 

"  Yes,  my  little  son." 

"  I  beseech  you,  give  me  your  blessing." 

He  knelt  at  the  Abbot's  feet.  The  great  leaves  of  the 
fig-tree  embowered  them  as  with  a  canopy.  In  the  warm 
darkness  the  hand  of  the  superior  sought  and  found  the 
bowed  head.  Comfort  dwelt  in  the  beautiful  words,  and 
should  have  passed  like  a  sweet  odour  into  the  troubled 
soul;  but  despite  his  efforts  to  force  himself  within  their 
influence,  Petros  felt  only  a  spiritual  coldness  that,  while 
vaguely  terrifying,  left  him  unmoved. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THROUGH  the  thin  partition  that  separated  the  cell  of 
Zetitzka  from  that  of  Apostoli  came  the  droning  voice  of  the 
latter  reciting  his  breviary.  In  the  hush  of  the  night  the 
sound  was  distinctly  audible.  Petros  and  Zetitzka  listened 
uneasily. 

"  He  will  of  a  surety  hear  all  we  say,"  whispered  the 
boy. 

The  girl  assented. 

"  Another  time "  she  began. 

"  Nay,  I  have  waited  so  long.  Let  us  go  to  the  outer 
court.  At  this  hour  no  one  will  be  there." 

She  cast  a  glance  at  her  bandaged  ankle. 

"  If  "—Petros  flushed—"  if  I  may  carry  you?  " 

Her  faint  protest  was  met  by  a  breathless  rush  of  reasons 
— he  was  strong — he  would  be  careful — he  could  go  there 
blindfold — there  was  no  other  way.  In  tremulous  silence 
she  allowed  him  to  lift  her  from  the  couch. 

In  spite  of  his  boasted  strength,  Petros  felt  as  if  her 
weight  were  too  much  for  him,  for  in  the  emotion  of  the 
moment  his  head  swam  and  his  heart  drummed  loudly  in 
his  ears.  The  weakness  passed.  Eeverence,  tenderness, 
and  an  immense  pride  took  its  place.  Neither  spoke. 
Slowly,  carefully,  moving  like  one  caught  away  into  a 
heaven  of  dreams,  he  carried  her  out  into  the  night. 

The  warm  contact  of  his  encircling  arms  communicated 
itself  to  her  in  a  thrill  of  exquisite  happiness.  So  con- 
scious was  she  of  the  reverence  of  his  attitude  that  all  fear, 
all  shyness  even,  vanished.  Shutting  her  eyes,  she  gave 
herself  up  to  the  intense  realisation  of  the  moment. 

As  they  passed  the  end  of  the  cloisters  that  faced  the 
refectory,  the  door  of  the  latter  opened  suddenly.  In  the 
lighted  entrance  stood  a  black  figure.  He  had  not  seen 
them,  for  the  darkness  of  the  night  hid  them  like  a  curtain, 
but  instinctively  Petros  stepped  behind  a  pillar.  Zetitzka 

236 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  237 

felt  his  arms  tighten  round  her.  The  sense  of  being 
protected  by  the  man  she  loved  was  so  sweet,  and  so 
wonderful,  that  it  made  her  almost  indifferent  to  what 
might  happen. 

"  Methought  I  heard  a  noise,"  Sotiri's  voice  remarked. 

"  Perchance  it  was  a  rat;  they  increase  fast,"  answered 
another  of  the  lay  brethren.  Then  from  within  came  a 
querulous  voice,  broken  by  coughing,  that  bade  Sotiri  close 
the  door.  The  light  disappeared,  and  all  was  again  still. 

Having  set  her  down  upon  the  log  of  wood  that,  over- 
looking the  void,  formed  one  of  the  favourite  resting- 
places  of  the  monks,  Petros  seated  himself  beside  her. 
Like  one  drugged,  he  allowed  himself  to  drift  away  on  the 
transport  of  the  moment.  It  was  good  to  be  there,  just 
he  and  she,  alone,  in  the  kindly  concealing  light.  The 
few  dozen  yards  that  separated  them  from  the  sleeping 
brethren  might  have  been  so  many  leagues,  so  cut  off  did 
they  feel  from  the  unimportant  life  of  the  monastery. 
The  past  and  future  ceased  to  exist.  The  present  meant 
only  them;  they  became  the  one  thing  important  in  this 
world  of  shadows.  Their  physical  selves,  their  pulses,  their 
breathing  filled  the  universe. 

To  Petros  everything  dimly  seen  in  the  night  appeared 
to  be  a  part  of  this  wonderful  experience,  to  share  his 
feelings.  "Were  not  the  familiar  hills  his  confidantes,  the 
unchangeable  stars  his  friends  ?  For  the  world,  down  there, 
with  its  many  inhabitants — if  indeed  he  recalled  it  at  all 
— he  felt  only  pity.  To  sit  there  by  her  side,  to  watch  the 
profile  of  her  half-averted  face,  filled  him  with  feelings  far 
beyond  comprehension. 

Their  material  surroundings  made  more  impression  upon 
Zetitzka  than  upon  Petros.  Everything  to  her  was  still 
full  of  mystery  and  novelty.  The  sense  of  being  uplifted 
on  that  pinnacle  still  took  away  her  breath,  particularly 
when,  as  now,  she  looked  down  from  the  sheer  brink  of 
the  precipice.  The  air  seemed  to  circulate  more  freely  here ; 
it  fanned  the  little  curls  on  her  forehead  and  brought 
with  it  a  pleasant  sensation  of  coolness,  grateful  after  the 
long  heat  of  the  day.  But  in  the  night  this  seat  did  not 
look  so  perilous,  or  it  may  be  that  her  companion  inspired 
her  with  courage. 

The  great  purple  spaces,  star-powdered  and  hushed,  that 


238  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

extended  from  the  immediate  blackness  below  to  the  dim 
line  that  was  the  Albanian  frontier,  enticed  her.  The 
absence  of  detail  was  soothing;  it  allied  itself  to  reverie. 
And,  strange  to  relate,  as  she  sat  there,  without  speaking, 
her  thoughts  were  as  much  with  her  child  as  with  Petros, 
for  tenderness  with  unconscious  art  had  enshrined  them 
together  in  the  inmost  sanctuary  of  her  heart. 

The  great  happiness  that  had  come  to  her  with  the 
knowledge  of  his  love  was  with  her  continually.  It  ebbed 
and  flowed  around  her  like  the  waters  of  a  warm,  sentient 
sea,  islanding  her  even  from  the  memory  of  sorrow.  She 
feared  to  think  of  it  as  hers,  lest  it  should  suddenly  take 
wings.  But  she  felt  it  intensely. 

A  sudden  movement  caused  her  to  look  at  the  boy  beside 
her.  His  rapt  young  face  was  gazing  into  hers  with  an 
air  of  expectancy.  His  attitude  reminded  her  that  he  had 
brought  her  there  that  she  might  tell  her  story.  With 
the  recollection  came  consternation  and  repugnance. 
Everything  conspired  to  fan  these  feelings — the  youth  and 
innocence  of  her  companion,  her  abhorrence  of  the  past, 
and  an  instinctive  and  shrinking  delicacy  that  recoiled  from 
putting  such  a  tale  as  hers  into  words.  And,  more  than 
all,  dwarfing  even  these  into  insignificance,  came  the  sudden 
apprehension  that  were  she  to  tell  all  she  might  lose  his 
love. 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  she  faltered. 

He  looked  at  her  face,  so  near  his  own,  so  pale  and 
beautiful,  yet  so  full  of  distress,  and  his  heart  leapt  in 
sympathy. 

"  Nay,"  he  cried  eagerly.  "  Nay,  it  matters  not  at 
all." 

While  she  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  he  continued  hastily : 

"If  it  could  only  be  known  unto  you  what  I  feel !  It 
is  without  doubt  a  miracle.  It  is  you !  ' ' 

"  Don't,"  she  said  brokenly.  "  I  bring  unhappiness 
wherever  I  go!  " 

He  contradicted  hotly.  As  he  spoke  the  innocence  and 
candour  of  his  nature  struck  her  again.  In  many  ways 
he,  as  well  as  the  monastery,  seemed  above  the  world.  She 
could  not  have  believed  that  a  grown  man  could  have  re- 
tained to  so  great  an  extent  the  appealing  simplicity  of 
childhood.  There  was  to  Zetitzka  something  extremely 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  239 

touching  in  his  attitude.  It  was  as  if  his  trust  in  her 
were  akin  to  his  trust  in  God.  This  worship — pure,  yet 
burning  as  a  flame  upon  an  altar — while  flattering,  caused 
her  pain.  The  fear  lest  she  might  fail  to  come  up  to  his 
ideal  made  her  anxious.  For  nothing  would  she  have  dis- 
appointed him.  His  confidence  in  her  awoke  an  almost 
protective  tenderness.  Hardness  and  suspicion  fell  from 
her  like  ignoble  armour  for  which  she  had  no  longer  any 
use.  She  became  all  woman — all  the  best  of  woman,  soft, 
tender,  pitiful,  and  unselfish.  Knowing  by  bitter  experi- 
ence the  danger  of  passion,  she  dimly  realised  that  she 
would  have  to  exercise  circumspection;  not  for  her  sake, 
but  for  his.  Engrossed  with  the  present  and  blinded  by 
its  radiance,  she  forgot  the  future  with  the  demands  upon 
an  all  but  superhuman  courage  and  self-sacrifice.  For 
the  moment  her  every  thought  was  for  him.  Experience 
had  come  to  her  with  a  crown  of  thorns.  God  helping 
her,  it  should  not  wound  him.  Her  duty,  she  felt  with 
solemnity,  lay  in  defending  this  young  monk  against  him- 
self; in  keeping  him  body  and  soul  without  stain,  so 
that,  at  the  last,  no  shadow  of  remorse  might  darken  his 
life. 

But  would  she  have  the  strength?  Was  this  resolution 
compatible  with  the  inherited  tendencies  of  her  nature? 
— with  the  hot  and  lawless  blood  that  ran  in  her  veins — 
with  the  fierce  passions  of  an  ancestry  who  laid  shadowy 
hands  upon  her,  binding  her  to  them,  the  living  to  the 
dead,  across  the  gulf  of  years?  She,  too,  hungered  for 
love,  and  all  that  love  brings.  And  moreover,  she  was 
pitifully  conscious  of  weakness,  the  weakness  of  a  woman 
who  loves  so  utterly  that  her  dearest  happiness  consists 
in  giving. 

At  present,  self-denial  seemed  possible.  But  with  her 
it  was  still  the  dawn.  Seen  through  rose-light,  the  features 
of  this  enchanted  land  of  love  showed  rapturously  un- 
familiar— the  promised  land  of  her  most  sacred  dreams. 
Her  past  experience  availed  her  nothing,  for  it  was  full 
of  discords,  whereas  this  was  all  harmony.  Love  in  its 
most  beautiful  aspect  was  so  new  to  her.  She  could  not 
yet  tell  how  it  would  influence  her  actions,  nor  how  far 
she  could  depend  upon  herself.  At  present  she  only  wel- 
comed it  with  tremulous  and  inarticulate  gratitude.  She 


240  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

was  like  one  who,  ignorant  of  its  effect,  drains  for  the 
first  time  a  sweet  but  intoxicating  draught.  The  sweet- 
ness was  with  her  still,  the  intoxication  was  to  follow. 

The  breeze  stole  upwards  from  the  sleeping  plains  in 
long-drawn  sighs  and  warm,  panting  breaths.  It,  too, 
seemed  to  share  their  emotion.  Under  the  magic  of  its 
touch  the  blood  of  Petros  tingled,  and  gladdened,  and  re- 
membered, as  though  past  lives  were  stirring  within  him, 
and  his  every  nerve  vibrated  in  unconscious  unison  like 
the  singing  chords  of  a  harp.  These  sensations,  so  power- 
ful, obliterated  thought.  It  was  as  though  his  body  had 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  found  a  myriad  tongues, 
clamorous  and  incomprehensible,  and  yet  so  united  that 
they  were  but  one  voice  crying  passionately  to  him  out  of 
the  darkness,  summoning  him  he  knew  not  whither. 

"Zetitzka!  "  he  cried. 

His  arms  were  outstretched.  His  eyes  burned  into  hers. 
For  a  breathless  moment  she  shared  his  emotion.  All  the 
woman  in  her  yearned  for  him,  for  his  arms  to  enfold 
her,  for  his  lips  to  kiss  her;  yearned,  and  hungered,  and 
thirsted,  with  a  longing  that  well-nigh  overcame  her;  yet 
all  the  time  something  deep  down,  that  was  her  better  self 
in  arms  against  her  heart,  fought,  and  fought,  and  would 
not  be  conquered. 

Instinctively,  as  one  face  to  face  with  danger,  she  had 
drawn  back.  In  as  far  as  a  woman  could,  she  under- 
stood this  boy.  The  knowledge  called  forth  infinite  pity. 
With  a  sudden  prompting  of  tenderness  that  overcame  all 
fear,  she  took  his  hand.  All  his  blood,  all  his  life,  seemed 
to  Petros  to  rush  violently  into  that  hand,  leaving  the  rest 
of  his  body  weak  and  helpless.  Her  touch  was  at  once  a 
consecration  and  a  torture.  His  strong  fingers,  interlaced 
with  hers,  tightened  convulsively.  The  pain  struck  some 
chord  of  primitive  emotion — gave  her  a  fierce  pang  of 
pleasure.  More — it  deadened  the  hungry  ache  in  her 
breast.  Even  so,  had  circumstances  been  otherwise,  would 
she  have  had  him  seize  her  and  crush  her  until  breath 
almost  left  her  body. 

To  know  that  his  sensations  were  shared  filled  Petros 
with  ecstasy.  A  pure  deep  feeling  rose  from  his  heart, 
It  refined  and  elevated  his  every  thought.  Unconsciously, 
it  summoned  to  mind  holy  things,  and  solemn  moments 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  241 

in  his  life,  when,  as  now,  his  soul  had  been  awed  by  the 
presence  of  something  incomprehensible  and  divine. 

A  subdued  solemnity,  as  it  were  a  tender  twilight  of 
the  spirit,  crept  over  him.  He  feared  to  wake  from  the 
dream  of  paradise.  The  day  had  sounded  a  note  of  pro- 
found happiness;  in  the  morning  the  world  had  been 
changed  and  renewed  in  the  light  of  her  eyes;  and  now 
heaven  opened  to  the  touch  of  her  fingers. 

This  final  miracle  seemed  to  Petros  the  solution  of  all 
his  troubles.  To  hold  her  hand.  He  could  think  of  noth- 
ing more  wonderful:  nothing  more  precious  and  intimate. 

The  moon  rose  behind  the  dark  buttress-tower  of 
Meteoron.  The  atmosphere  imparted  to  it  a  red  golden 
hue.  It  looked  near  and  unnaturally  large.  The  distance 
crept  into  view,  soft  and  ethereally  bright,  shrouded  in 
veil  behind  veil  of  silver  haze.  Enchantment  held  the 
world  sleepy-eyed.  A  night  created  for  the  sheltering  of 
tenderness — when  soul  speaks  to  soul  in  silence  that  is 
more  lucid  than  speech. 

The  wan  illumination  shone  straight  upon  his  face. 
Zetitzka  marvelled  at  his  pallor  and  at  the  look  in  his 
eyes.  His  hat  had  been  discarded,  his  long  hair  fell  to  his 
shoulders.  An  old-world  air  lent  asceticism  to  his  appear- 
ance. He  might  have  been  a  mediaeval  saint  carved  in 
alabaster  and  painted  in  sombre  colours  against  a  back- 
ground set  with  stars. 


16 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  great  constellations  blazed  in  the  clear-obscure  of 
the  summer  sky.  Here  and  there  a  planet  glowed  with 
fiery  yet  tempered  splendour.  These  innumerable  eyes  of 
heaven  seemed  to  smile  upon  Zetitzka.  They  peopled  the 
night  with  sympathy.  Often  before  had  she  watched  them, 
and  was  no  stranger  to  the  feelings  they  aroused.  But 
now,  for  the  first  time,  their  beauty  and  mystery  called 
aloud  to  the  beauty  and  mystery  within  her  heart.  Com- 
prehension thrilled  her.  They  knew.  Her  soul  mounted 
to  them  on  beating  wings. 

But  the  eyes  of  Petros  did  not  leave  her  face. 

"  Zetitzka,"  he  said,  "  ever  since  that  day  at  Lavra, 

I "  He  broke  off,  then  continued  quickly: — "  It  was 

terrible;  but  all  at  once  it  was  only  wonderful.  I  tried 
to  think  it  evil,  but  it  was  you.  You  are  the  answer  to 
everything.  You  are  everything.  When  I  am  near  you 
it  is  heaven — when  you  are  away,  even  for  a  moment, 
something  cries  out  here — "  He  touched  the  breast  of 
his  cassock.  "  Zetitzka — "  his  voice  suddenly  vibrated 
with  intense  and  profound  conviction "  this  is  love." 

The  pressure  of  her  fingers  answered  him.  For  some 
time  he  sat  without  speaking,  and  she  felt  he  was  wrapped 
in  the  wonder  and  solemnity  of  his  discovery.  Then  he 
leant  towards  her  and  said :  ' '  Tell  me  about  love,  Zetitzka, 
I  want  to  know.  I  must  know." 

But  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  words. 

In  the  moonlight,  she  saw  a  great  seriousness  come 
into  his  face — the  rapt  expression  which  she  had  noticed 
before  when  he  spoke  of  holy  things. 

' '  The  Blessed  Virgin  is  a  woman  too.  Before  you  came 
I  prayed  daily  to  her  icon.  I  even  thought  her  beautiful 
— but  now " 

Zetitzka  sat  erect. 

242 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  243 

"No!"  she  protested,  deeply  moved.  "No!  no!  no! 
You  must  not  love  me  like  that." 

For  long  she  spoke  earnestly,  reasoning  with  him,  seek- 
ing— with  God  alone  knows  how  painful  and  pathetic  a 
conscientiousness — to  lead  him  back  to  the  loveless  path 
of  duty. 

She  had  small  skill  in  speech,  this  mountain  girl,  but 
she  had  a  great  heart.  In  faltering  inadequate  words  she 
tried  to  keep  the  cruel  facts  before  him,  as  if  in  convinc- 
ing him  she  could  convince  herself  also.  She  reminded 
him  that  he  was  a  monk,  vowed  to  God  and  a  life  of  re- 
ligion; that  his  calling  must  come  first,  always  first;  that 
he  must  not  love  her;  that  she  must  go  away  soon;  that 
all  was  doubtless  for  the  best,  but  he  must  not  love  her; 
no,  he  must  not  love  her;  he  must  not  love  her.  And 
always  she  returned  to  this  protest,  hastily,  insistently, 
feverishly,  speaking  only  to  silence  the  passionate  longings 
of  her  heart. 

It  was  a  strange  scene  in  this  little  monastic  court,  in 
the  pale  sad  splendour  of  the  moon — this  boy  and  girl 
engulfed  in  the  waters  of  passion — he  but  half-conscious 
of  the  tide  that  was  sweeping  him  far  from  familiar  land- 
marks, ignorant  alike  of  its  significance  and  its  goal — she 
struggling  to  retain  her  footing,  seeking  to  drag  him  back 
into  the  shallows;  and  all  the  time  yearning  for  that 
against  which  she  fought. 

As  she  leant  towards  him,  seeking  for  words,  her  face 
faintly  visible  in  the  surrounding  gloom,  but  her  eyes  shin- 
ing, she  trembled  and  shook  with  a  passion  that  equalled 
his  own.  The  fear  of  alienating  his  love  caused  her  torture. 
But  she  persevered. 

And  Petros  listened,  his  chin  sunk  to  his  hand,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  space.  She  could  see  by  his  attitude  that  he  was 
inwardly  revolving  all  she  had  said. 

"  I  must  not  love  you?  "  he  repeated  at  length,  speak- 
ing slowly  and  incredulously ;  then,  with  swift  scorn :  * '  But 
what  use  to  tell  me  that  ?  For  I  do  love  you !  ' ' 

He  continued:  "  They  told  me  that  this" — in  the  dusk 
she  saw  him  indicate  the  monastery — "  was  the  only  per- 
fect life.  I  believed  them.  They  said  that  the  world  was 
wicked,  and  that  women  were  evil.  Again  I  believed  them. 


244  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

Why  not  ?  They  were  wise,  and  I  ignorant.  To  me  it  ap- 
peared good  and  safe  to  abide  here  alway — all  my  life.  It 
had  been  my  home  for  long :  I  had  nowhere  else  to  go.  Ay, 
and  not  that  only,  but  of  a  truth  it  seemed  wondrous  sweet 
to  give  my  whole  life  to  God.  You  see — then  I  was  happy. 
I  did  not  know!  I  did  not  know!  " 

Unable  to  bear  the  keen  note  of  pain  in  his  voice, 
Zetitzka  averted  her  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  that  even  in 
gazing  at  him,  dimly  seen  though  he  was  in  the  darkness, 
she  was  spying  upon  his  grief,  upon  the  profound  and  dis- 
tressful stupor  of  one  awakening  for  the  first  time  to  a 
hopeless  reality.  Again  he  burst  forth: 

"  But  why  may  I  not  love  you?  Why?  why?  As  if  it 
were  aught  sinful !  Sweet  saints !  it  is  as  beautiful,  as  holy 
as — as  prayer!  Zetitzka,  God  is  love!  Why  may  I  not 
love  you?  " 

And  again  Zetitzka  could  only  listen  in  a  pained  silence, 
stirred  to  the  depths,  acutely  conscious  of  the  gulf  that 
separated  them  and  of  the  love  that  drew  them  together. 

"  Ah!  "  he  cried.  "  You  cannot  answer.  But  I  know! 
It  comes  from  God.  It  is  part  of  His  love.  It  is  above 

this "    Again  he  indicated  the  monastery.     "  I  cannot 

explain,  but  I  feel  it.  I  marvel  much  that  no  one  has 
ever  told  me  of  it.  But  " — he  turned  to  her,  his  face 
shining — "  we  have  found  it — you  and  I,  Zetitzka — and 
we  will  keep  it  always." 

The  strain  of  self-control  was  telling  upon  Zetitzka.  She 
felt  at  the  limit  of  her  endurance.  How  to  tell  him? 
How  to  convince?  Her  arguments  had  proved  useless  as 
handfuls  of  water  flung  in  the  face  of  a  great  fire.  But 
one  way  remained. 

"  Listen !  ' '  she  said,  sharply.  "  No ;  do  not  speak.  Only 
listen.  I  will  tell  you — will  tell  you  all.  Then — then  you 
will  not  love  me  any  more." 

He  stared  at  her,  incredulous,  yet  awed  into  silence. 

In  the  clear  moonlight,  lifted  high  above  the  sleeping 
world,  surrounded  by  the  solemn  quietude  of  the  monas- 
tery, she  told  him  part  of  her  story. 

It  was  but  a  fragmentary  record  of  what  had  befallen 
her;  for  she  purposely  omitted  much  concerning  the  man 
who  had  wronged  her,  revealing  only  his  desertion  and 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  245 

that  lie  was  the  father  of  her  child.  Neither  did  she  reveal 
the  reason  of  her  visit  to  the  monastery. 

Surely  it  was  sufficient  to  tell  him  that  she  was  not  the 
pure  woman  he  had  imagined  her,  and  that  he  must  banish 
her  for  ever  from  his  life. 

In  the  pain  of  the  recital,  Zetitzka  lost  sight  of  the 
unusual  ignorance  and  innocence  of  her  auditor,  forgot 
everything  save  the  bitter  past  and  that  voluntarily  she 
was  signing  her  own  death-warrant.  The  pathetic  tale, 
finishing  upon  a  note  of  hopeless  despondency,  came 
abruptly  to  a  close. 

Bewilderment  fell  upon  Petros.  He  did  not  understand. 
He  shrank  from  asking.  His  mind  was  in  a  whirl.  Depths 
hitherto  undreamt  of  suddenly  yawned  before  him.  They 
had  been  there  all  the  time,  but  he  had  not  even  suspected 
their  existence.  His  ignorance,  by  awakening  imagination, 
attributed  to  them  peculiar  mystery  and  horror. 

The  sense  of  her  actual  words — which,  though  suggesting 
much,  expressed  for  him  so  little — passed  over  his  head, 
but  he  was  doubly  sensitive  to  the  inflections  of  her  voice, 
sharing  to  the  utmost  limit  of  his  powers  every  emotion  it 
betrayed. 

Her  moonlit  face  was  an  open  book.  In  it  were  to  be 
read  shame,  grief,  and  remorse — a  dark  record,  yet  lighted 
and  made  beautiful  from  within  by  the  brave  effort  to  do 
right.  Petros  heard,  rather  than  saw,  these  conflicting  emo- 
tions, and  the  indefinable  something  that  lent  dignity  to 
her  confession.  The  latter  inspired  him  with  reverence. 
That  she  should  suffer  at  all  awoke  his  indignation.  So 
lofty  was  the  pedestal  upon  which  he  had  placed  her,  that 
suffering  connected  with  one  so  perfect  seemed  monstrous. 
One  thing,  however,  stood  clear.  Someone  had  wronged 
her. 

As  this  struck  home,  all  the  innate  chivalry  of  his  nature 
was  for  the  first  time  aroused.  It  cried  aloud  to  all  that 
was  strong  in  him.  In  response,  his  manhood  started  up — 
eager,  nay,  burning  to  make  her  wrongs  his  own,  to  com- 
fort and  protect  her — ay,  with  his  life,  if  need  be — in  the 
face  of  the  whole  world. 

Eagerly  he  spoke.  Indignation  against  the  man  who  had 
deceived  her  mingled  half  savagely,  half  incoherently,  with 


246  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

expressions  of  a  worship  that  was  oblivious  of  even  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt.  She  was  everything  to  him.  He  had 
known  nothing  else.  He  wanted  nothing  else.  Could  she 
understand  one  person  being  everything  and  the  whole 
world  nothing?  Could  she? — could  she? 

Leaning  towards  her,  so  close  that  his  breath  stirred 
her  hair,  he  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  passionate  yet 
authoritative  tenderness  that  swept  aside  all  dreams  of 
opposition.  Zetitzka's  heart  swelled.  Glad  and  involun- 
tary tears  filled  her  eyes.  All  that  was  womanly  in  her, 
all  that  was  clinging  and  weak,  all  that  longed  to  be  loved 
and  worshipped  and  taken  possession  of,  went  out  to  him. 
She  exulted  in  this  new  tone  of  domination.  Her  joy 
drowned  every  dissentient  voice.  To  silence  her  conscience 
she  promised  herself  to  keep  him  pure  in  heart.  But,  oh  1 
to  be  happy,  even  for  a  little  time !  To  forget  everything 
save  this  joy  that  had  come  to  her  so  unexpectedly !  To  let 
herself  be  borne  away  on  the  current  of  this  love  that 
surely  was  more  beautiful  than  any  other  love  since  the 
world  began ! 

His  hand,  his  eyes,  demanded  an  answer.  The  hot 
night  seemed  to  demand  it  too,  for  a  hush  had  fallen, 
as  though  it  also  were  listening  and  waiting.  At  last  it 
came — the  confession  of  a  heart  that  would  not  be  stilled. 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered — "  yes,  I  understand." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

DAY  after  day  passed  in  the  little  monastery  above  the 
world — passed  as  they  were  wont  to  pass,  like  other  days 
in  the  uncounted  years.  All  went  on  as  usual — the  long 
services,  the  hours  for  meditation,  the  meals  in  the  bare 
refectory,  the  monastic  tittle-tattle,  the  listless  silence,  the 
sun-steeped  repose.  But  for  Petros  and  Zetitzka  all  was 
changed. 

For  them  everything  sounded  the  same  intensely  per- 
sonal note — a  soft,  unobtrusive,  and  tenderly  sympathetic 
accompaniment  to  their  feelings.  Nature  offered  them 
her  gifts  with  both  hands — the  golden  gift  of  sun,  the  silver 
gift  of  stars,  the  diamond  gift  of  dawns  sparkling  in  dew 
and  caressed  by  crystal  airs.  They  accepted  all  with  the 
unconsciousness  of  children  or  of  lovers,  accepted  it  as 
their  right,  their  minds  engrossed  on  higher  matters.  Dur- 
ing these  halcyon  days  they  moved  through  monastic  life 
in  a  golden  haze,  through  which  the  monastery,  its  inmates, 
the  wonderful  view,  everything,  seemed  far  off,  nebulous, 
unimportant,  almost  unreal,  for  was  not  the  only  reality 
this  miraculous  flower  of  love,  that  had  blossomed  to  un- 
expected beauty  within  their  hearts? 

They  lived  for  the  moment,  thereby  discovering  for  them- 
selves the  secret  of  happiness.  There  were  times,  however, 
when  stern  facts  refused  to  be  forgotten,  when  it  was 
impressed  upon  Petros  that  he  was  living  in  sin,  and  upon 
Zetitzka  that  she  was  mad  to  linger  there  in  momentary 
danger  of  discovery.  But  these  occasions  were  few  and 
soon  forgotten. 

One  morning  they  were  together  in  the  cloisters,  when 
the  voice  of  Apostoli  reached  them. 

"  Tear  it  from  out  your  heart,  Brother  Gerasimos!  " 

"  Nay,"  responded  a  mild  voice;  "  I  think  not  that  it  is 
evil."  * 

The  two  monks  came  into  view,  drifting  round  the  sunny 

247 


248  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

end  of  the  Catholicon  into  the  shadow  below  the  arches, 
Apostoli  frowning  and  denunciatory,  Gerasimos  ex- 
postulatory  and  with  a  comical  air  of  a  schoolboy  taken  to 
task. 

"  How  not  evil?  "  said  the  former  harshly.  "  When  it 
concerns  a  woman!  " 

Petros  and  Zetitzka  listened.  Gerasimos,  looking  up  as 
he  approached,  caught  Zetitzka 's  eye  and  bestowed  upon 
her  a  glance  replete  with  confidential  meaning. 

"  Thoughts  about  women,"  continued  Apostoli,  with 
rancour,  "  should  be  banished  from  the  mind  of  a  worthy 
monk. ' ' 

The  face  of  Petros  flushed;  his  eyes  lit  up;  but  he  re- 
pressed his  indignation. 

"  Behold!  "  cried  Apostoli,  in  godly  triumph,  "  Brother 
Petros  is  moved,  and  with  reason.  Ah !  ' ' — his  gesture  in- 
cluded Zetitzka — "  ye  twain  are  young — boys — yet  is  one 
never  too  young  to  fly  from  evil.  Let  this  be  a  warning 
unto  you." 

He  continued  his  tirade  against  the  forbidden  sex.  His 
language  was  exaggerated,  yet  obscure,  mystical,  full  of 
veiled  threats  and  suggestions  of  mysterious  malevolence 
that  gave  to  his  gaunt  figure  and  forbidding  countenance 
the  air  of  some  grim  prophet  of  evil.  Ceasing  abruptly, 
he  shuffled  away,  followed  at  a  little  distance  by  the  un- 
repentant Gerasimos. 

Zetitzka  and  Petros  were  left  alone.  The  boy  was  burst- 
ing with  feelings  outraged  beyond  words.  The  peace  of 
the  shadowy  cloisters  seemed  to  mock  at  his  agitation. 
Suddenly  his  eyes  met  hers.  A  magnetic  and  irresistible 
current  of  attraction  flashed  to  his  brain.  There  came  a 
swift  revulsion.  He  forgot  his  indignation:  his  eyes  grew 
soft,  luminous,  tender;  his  fists  unclenched;  his  muscles 
relaxed;  everything  but  the  girl  before  him  passed  into 
utter  indifference. 

Zetitzka  had  resumed  her  duties  in  the  Catholicon.  She 
performed  them  gladly,  for  they  brought  her  into  hourly 
contact  with  Petros.  A  change  had  come  over  her.  Her 
health  had  benefited  by  the  enforced  rest,  and  more  still 
by  happiness.  In  some  respects  her  long  period  of  suffer- 
ing became  as  though  it  had  not  been,  and  as  though  she 
herself  had  stepped  back  to  the  days  of  her  girlhood,  A 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  249 

subtle  something,  that  was  charm,  emanated  from  her 
whole  being.  Love  did  for  her  what  sunshine  does  for 
flowers.  Even  the  Abbot  and  the  brethren  wondered  at 
times  to  see  her  face  shining  with  some  incomprehensible 
feeling  that  made  it  as  a  "  sunshine  in  a  shady  place." 
And  more  and  more  did  her  presence  become  an  incon- 
gruity in  this  old  monastery,  among  all  these  white- 
bearded  monks. 

Zetitzka's  nature  had  always  possessed  a  faculty  for 
growth  and  change.  Life,  inscrutable  and  apparently  un- 
scrupulous, had  employed  two  men  as  its  tools.  They 
were  moulding  her  into  what  she  would  ultimately  become 
— the  one  by  the  force  of  suffering,  the  other  by  the  power 
of  love.  Stephanos  had  paved  the  way  for  Petros.  His 
treatment  of  her  had  unconsciously  prepared  her  to  wel- 
come the  pure  worship  of  the  boy  with  a  gratitude  that 
turned  her  love  almost  to  adoration.  The  former  had 
covered  her  with  shame,  the  latter  restored  her  self-re- 
spect. 

The  pathos  of  the  situation  lay  in  the  fact  that  though 
she  had  at  last  found  the  one  man  in  the  world  constituted 
to  heal  and  fill  her  heart,  whom  she  loved,  and  by  whom 
she  was  beloved — yet  he  was  denied  her.  Both  were 
young,  nature  had  formed  them  for  each  other,  life  had 
brought  them  together,  instinct  commanded  them  to  love, 
everything  approved  of  the  union,  everything  but  man, 
who,  with  his  self-imposed  laws,  stepped  in  and  forbade 
it.  In  a  sense  Petros  was  as  dead  to  her  as  though  he  were 
already  in  his  coffin. 

Zetitzka  's  conception,  at  this  precise  period,  of  the  nature 
of  her  passion,  of  its  significance,  its  goal,  and  the  moral  re- 
sponsibilities it  entailed  was  nebulous  and  contradictory. 
Nor  could  it  well  be  otherwise,  for  the  mountain  race  from 
which  she  had  sprung  was  as  uncontrolled  in  its  love  as 
it  was  lawless  in  its  hate.  She,  poor  girl,  the  daughter  of 
primitive  forbears,  had  but  one  adviser — her  heart.  She 
lived  in  and  by  her  feelings — swayed  this  way  and  that 
— now  fancying  herself  capable  of  renunciation,  now  dimly 
and  tremblingly  aware  of  that  within  which  would  one  day 
demand  fulfilment. 

But  as  love  gained  upon  her,  gained  day  by  day  with 
swift  but  insidious  advances,  silencing  all  voices  save  its 


250  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

own ;  fusing  itself  into  her  living,  breathing  existence,  into 
her  dreams  and  waking  moments,  into  her  capabilities  for 
hope  and  fear;  stealing  her  very  heart  from  her  bosom — 
all  lofty  and  self-sacrificing  resolutions  sank  from  sight 
like  castles  of  sand  before  the  sweep  of  a  resistless  tide, 
but  to  be  rebuilt,  however,  as  she  fell  again  under  the 
influence  of  disinterested  feelings. 

More  and  more  as  time  passed  did  Petros  become  in- 
separable from  her  very  life;  more  and  ever  more  did 
the  sunshine  of  his  love  transform  the  darkened  world  of 
her  loneliness  into  a  blessed  land  of  joy  and  light.  His 
physical  being — that  material  self  that  to  her  enchanted 
vision  so  radiantly  portrayed  the  youth,  the  freshness,  and 
the  beauty  of  his  nature — awoke  in  her  feelings  too  tremu- 
lous, too  tender  for  expression.  Carried  away  by  them  she 
would  touch  the  coarse  stuff  of  his  cassock,  or  at  times  even 
allow  her  fingers  to  pass  lightly  and  caressingly  over  his 
hair.  It  was  curious  to  note  in  these  timid  overtures  the 
birth  of  a  fierce  and  jealous  emotion — the  instinct  of  the 
woman  asserting  its  claim  to  the  man  of  her  choice — an 
instinct  faint  and  tentative  as  yet,  but  destined  to  become 
strong  and  imperious. 

Zetitzka's  feelings  towards  Stephanos  had  undergone  a 
change.  She  tried  to  banish  him  from  her  mind,  but  when 
his  memory  forced  itself  upon  her,  as  from  time  to  time 
it  did,  it  no  longer  aroused  the  fierce  emotions  that  had 
been  hers  when  first  she  came  to  the  monastery.  She  still 
feared  him,  with  an  instinctive  dread  as  of  something  re- 
pellent and  hostile,  and  had  she  been  informed  of  his 
death,  her  first  sensation  would  undoubtedly  have  been 
one  of  unspeakable  relief.  But  she  herself  no  longer  wished 
to  kill  him. 

Many  influences  had  been  at  work.  The  spiritual  atmos- 
phere of  the  monastery,  so  remote  from  the  tworld,  so 
saturated  in  the  profound  peace  that  brooded  for  ever 
around  that  isolated  height,  had  insensibly  wafted  her  away 
from  all  violent  associations.  Many  of  the  shadows  that 
had  darkened  her  past — and  particularly  the  blood- 
thirstiness  of  her  race — seemed  already  dim  and  distant. 

Yet  Barlaam  had  never  ceased  to  overawe  her.  Little 
by  little,  as  previously  narrated,  Zetitzka  had  fallen  under 
this  spell;  had  persuaded  herself  that  some  supernatural 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  251 

power  of  which  she  was  ignorant,  but  which  she  fearfully 
surmised  to  emanate  from  the  monastery,  forbade  her  again 
to  attempt  the  life  of  Stephanos.  This  incomprehensible 
something  that  endowed  the  low-browed  buildings  with  a 
soul  and  a  purpose,  appeared  to  the  credulous  mind  of 
the  mountain  girl  an  insuperable  barrier  erected  between 
her  and  her  goal.  At  first  it  had  filled  her  only  with 
impotent  anger,  but  now,  bending  to  fate,  she  had  accepted 
the  veto. 

The  inmates,  too,  had  contributed  not  a  little  to  the 
change.  The  Abbot,  for  example,  had  unwittingly  influ- 
enced her  for  good. 

But  the  great  factor,  without  which  all  others  would 
have  been  as  nothing,  was  love.  It  softened  and  changed 
her  entire  nature.  Even  hate  lost  its  power  to  embitter 
when  confronted  with  her  great  happiness.  It  became  but 
the  shadow  of  what  it  had  been,  prompting  only  a  longing 
to  fly  to  some  place  where  she  and  her  child  would  never 
see  or  hear  of  Stephanos  again. 

And  although  hate  and  love  had  changed  places,  yet 
the  latter  carried  on  the  plan  of  action  laicl  down  by  the 
former.  Hate  had  brought  her  to  the  monastery — love  kept 
her  there.  Day  after  day  prudence  insisted — "  You  must 
go  away.  There  is  nothing  to  keep  you  now."  But  love 
whispered:  "  Stay  yet  a  little  while.  Petros  loves  you." 
And  so  she  stayed. 

But  she  knew  that  in  giving  way  to  the  prompting  of 
her  heart  she  was  living  over  a  mine,  and  that  every  mo- 
ment of  stolen  pleasure  might  prove  the  last. 

Of  Stephanos,  however,  no  tidings  came.  He  had  disap- 
peared as  completely  as  though  the  world  into  which  he 
had  vanished  had  been  a  bottomless  pit.  Only  his  un- 
tenanted  cell,  his  empty  stall,  and  the  vague  suggestion 
of  danger  which,  like  some  fluid  magnetism  in  the  air,  bid 
her  be  continually  on  her  guard,  remained  to  testify  to 
his  existence. 

That  he  would  soon  come  back  she  knew  well.  A  week 
at  most  was  the  time  computed  for  the  task  which  he  had 
set  out  to  perform.  What  she  would  do  upon  his  return, 
or  in  what  way  he  would  influence  her  future  actions,  were 
questions  which  she  was  unable  to  answer,  although  they( 
suggested  themselves  to  her.  She  was  no  nearer  the  solu- 


252  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

tion  of  the  problem  than  when  first  she  had  entered  the 
monastery.  Stephanos  still  lived,  her  people  still  demanded 
his  death,  and  she,  poor  puppet,  blown  by  the  tragic  breath 
of  fate,  drifted  hither  and  thither,  and  found  no  abiding 
spot  whereon  to  alight. 

Neither  did  any  news  reach  her  from  the  little  Albanian 
village  but  two  days'  march  from  the  frontier.  It  also 
was  lost  in  silence,  a  silence  that  she  apprehensively  felt 
to  be  expectant,  sinister.  Had  it  not  been  for  her  child, 
this  absence  of  news  would  have  been  a  relief  rather  than 
an  anxiety,  for  Zetitzka  could  picture  only  too  well  the  re- 
proaches which  her  procrastination  must  be  calling  forth. 
And,  meantime,  like  a  lull  in  a  storm,  came  these  few 
days  of  almost  uninterrupted  happiness. 

Everything  conspired  to  favour  their  love — the  indul- 
gence of  the  Abbot,  the  ignorance  of  the  brethren,  the 
services  and  leisure  hours  that  threw  them  continually  to- 
gether, the  restricted  spaces,  the  glorious  weather  that  gave 
to  them  days  of  continual  sunshine  and  nights  of  quiet 
stars. 

Only  the  monastery  frowned  upon  them,  with  the  sullen 
resentment  of  one  forgotten. 


CHAPTEB  XXXIX 

WITHIN  the  court  of  Barlaam  Dimitri  paused.  The 
sound  of  the  reader's  voice  came  from  the  Catholicon,  rapid, 
high-pitched,  nasal.  Brother  Apdstoli  was  gabbling  the 
service.  Distance  softened  the  sound,  mellowing  all  that 
was  disagreeable  till  it  became  almost  natural  and  as  though 
born  of  the  fine  weather,  as  is  the  hum  of  bees.  At  uncer- 
tain intervals  a  subdued  murmur,  hoarse  and  transitory  as 
a  breaking  wave,  marked  the  responses. 

The  courts,  the  passages,  the  cloisters,  the  galleries,  all 
were  deserted,  given  over  to  sunshine  and  shadow.  Some- 
thing in  the  murmurous  sound  of  prayer,  and  in  the  vacant 
spaces  quiet  with  brooding  sanctity,  made  Dimitri  feel  like 
an  intruder.  A  subdued  solemnity  pervaded  this  pinnacle- 
top,  so  far  removed  from  the  world.  It  lent  a  distinctive 
atmosphere  to  the  old  grey  buildings.  They  were  so  still, 
so  mute;  they  appeared  to  listen,  dumbly  reverent  under 
their  low-browed  roofs.  They  might  have  been  praising 
God  for  His  gift  of  seven  hundred  years. 

Moving  softly,  Dimitri  went  to  the  outer  court.  It  was 
here  that  he  had  first  met  Zetitzka,  He  recalled  the  cir- 
cumstance, with  all  its  attendant  detail,  and  looked  long 
at  the  particular  part  of  the  log  upon  which  she  had  then 
sat.  A  feeling  of  being  face  to  face  with  something  big 
came  to  him.  It  inspired  an  unwonted  seriousness. 

As  he  stood  there,  lost  in  thought,  his  white  fustinella 
swaying  softly  in  the  breeze,  his  little  embroidered  jacket, 
with  its  rows  of  bright  metal  buttons,  setting  off  the 
breadth  of  his  capable  shoulders,  his  red  sash  attracting  the 
light,  his  round  cap  perched  jauntily  upon  his  head,  manly, 
picturesque,  his  appearance  contrasted  forcibly  with  the 
hushed  and  austere  attitude  of  the  monastery  at  his  back, 
with  its  grey  monotony  of  tone  as  of  a  perennial  twilight, 
and  with  its  immense  age  that  seemed  for  ever  brooding 
upon  an  inconceivably  remote  past.  His  air  of  health  and 

253 


254  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

strength,  of  manhood  at  its  prime,  of  frank  and  sensuous 
joy  of  life,  seemed  almost  an  insult  to  this  collection  of 
decrepit  buildings.  It  smacked  of  the  world,  of  irreverence, 
stamping  him  a  pagan  thing  almost  as  irresponsible  and 
soulless  as  the  sunshine  that  rioted  godlessly  in  the  silent 
courts. 

Yet  those  who  took  him  at  the  valuation  of  the  monas- 
tery would  have  been  misled,  for  Dimitri  was  no  mere 
thoughtless  embodiment  of  the  world's  frivolity.  His  good 
looks  pleased  less  for  their  own  sake  than  for  some  inherent 
quality  of  strength  and  self-reliance,  revealed  in  the  steady 
blue  eyes  and  in  the  firm  lines  of  the  mouth.  To  see  him 
one  instinctively  felt  him  to  be  a  good  fellow,  a  friend 
worth  having. 

Suddenly,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  log,  he  made 
an  impulsive  movement  of  his  shoulders,  as  if  to  throw 
off  some  weight.  As  he  did  so  he  laughed.  The  laugh 
was  directed  against  himself.  It  was  a  mirthless  protest. 
Yet  in  it  rang  a  note  of  genial  irony,  the  outcome  of  a 
resolve  not  to  take  himself  too  seriously,  that  was  char- 
acteristic of  the  man. 

The  long  service  was  over.  Dimitri  watched  the 
brethren  saunter  along  the  cloisters.  The  Abbot  crossed 
the  inner  court  and  passed  in  the  direction  of  his  cell,  a 
venerable  figure,  slow  moving,  full  of  quiet  dignity.  The 
monks  separated  in  small  groups.  Nicodemus  and 
Gerasimos — as  usual  together,  and  as  usual  arguing — 
stopped  awhile  under  the  fig-tree,  then  disappeared  into 
the  cellars.  Dimitri  waited  patiently,  but  no  one  else 
came  out  of  the  Catholicon.  Neither  Petros  nor  Zetitzka 
were  to  be  seen.  He  would  have  inquired  their  where- 
abouts, but  unusual  self-consciousness  restrained  him. 
Little  by  little  the  courts  resumed  their  former  lifeless 
appearance.  A  great  peace  fell.  Only  from  the  refectory 
came  the  sound  of  voices  rising  faintly,  then  dying  away, 
a  mere  ripple  on  the  sea  of  silence. 

The  muleteer  entered  the  Catholicon.  He  moved  almost 
on  his  toes.  Several  candles  were  burning  before  the  icons, 
mingling  their  feeble  artificial  light  with  the  wan  and 
niggard  light  of  day  that  struggled  inwards  through 
windows  so  small,  lofty,  and  begrimed  with  dust  and  cob- 
webs as  to  be  almost  useless  for  the  purpose  of  illumination. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  255 

In  this  mystic  twilight  the  mediaeval  adornments  showed 
faintly,  a  sheen  of  marble,  a  glimmer  of  gold,  receding  into 
the  formless  gloom  of  the  arches. 

As  Dimitri  hesitated,  the  sound  of  a  voice  came  to  his 
ears,  a  mere  murmur,  but  clearly  audible  in  the  silence.  It 
came  through  the  little  cupboard  door,  to  the  left  of  the 
Bema,  that  led  to  the  library.  Instinctively,  he  moved  in 
its  direction. 

The  library  of  Barlaam  was  a  secret  chamber.  To  gain 
access  to  it,  two  doors  had  to  be  passed,  the  former  of  which 
was  so  carefully  concealed  within  the  Catholicon  wall  that 
it  would  have  escaped  the  notice  of  anyone  not  conversant 
with  the  building.  Lighted  from  above,  the  little  vaulted 
chamber  gave  shelter  to  a  collection  comprising  a  couple 
of  thousand  volumes,  all  books  of  divinity,  the  writings  of 
the  fathers,  and  Venetian  editions  of  ecclesiastical  works. 
The  majority  were  printed,  but  some  were  in  Byzantine 
manuscript,  copies  of  the  Gospels  in  small  and  large  quartos, 
beautifully  written  upon  polished  vellum  and  dating  back 
to  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  centuries.  To  the  brethren 
they  were  useless,  for  none  save  Petros  and  the  Abbot  could 
read  either  Hellenic  or  ancient  Greek,  but  all  within  the 
monastery  reverenced  them  as  sacred  relics,  and  guarded 
them  jealously — as  much,  it  may  be,  on  account  of  their 
incomprehensibility  as  their  antiquity.  Brother  Johannes 
occupied  the  post  of  librarian — a  sinecure,  for  the  gentle 
dreaming  old  man  did  nothing  to  justify  the  appointment 
save  count  the  volumes  periodically.  Petros,  at  his  own 
request,  was  permitted  to  dust  them,  to  the  no  little  amuse- 
ment of  the  brethren,  who  could  not  imagine  why  he  took 
the  trouble.  From  his  father  the  young  monk  had  inherited 
a  love  of  books;  to  ponder  over  the  crabbed  characters,  to 
feel  the  smooth  and  polished  vellum,  and  to  feast  his  eyes 
upon  the  ancient  illuminations — these  were  to  him  constant 
and  never-failing  pleasures. 

It  was  to  this  retreat  that  the  voice  led  Dimitri. 

Standing  in  the  narrow  and  dark  passage  that  connected 
the  two  doors  above  mentioned,  the  muleteer  could  see 
the  whole  interior  of  the  library  without  being  himself  seen. 

Petros  and  Zetitzka  were  together.  That  they  had  come 
with  no  intention  of  looking  at  the  books  was  evident,  for 
the  volumes  stood  undisturbed  upon  the  shelves.  Seated 


256  FOEBIDDEN  GKOUND 

side  by  side  upon  a  low  divan  that  ran  round  three  walls 
of  the  apartment,  the  comrades  were  deep  in  conversation. 
From  his  place  of  concealment  Dimitri  could  see  the  face 
of  Petros.  One  glance  served  to  enlighten  him. 

Fierce  pain  shot  to  the  muleteer's  heart.  Something 
throbbed  in  his  temples,  hammered  in  his  ears.  A  feeling 
comparable  only  with  intense  physical  nausea  attacked  him. 
As  long  as  he  lived,  Dimitri  never  forgot  that  moment. 
Later,  when  he  heard  that  a  young  fellow  in  Trikala  had 
stabbed  a  successful  rival,  he  merely  nodded  his  head. 

Zetitzka  was  speaking.  Her  words  appeared  to  come 
from  an  immense  distance;  from  somewhere  in  the  light 
to  where  he  waited  in  the  darkness.  No  idea  that  he  was 
playing  the  part  of  eavesdropper  crossed  his  mind. 

If  his  suspicions  had  needed  confirmation,  they  would 
have  found  it  in  Zetitzka 's  voice.  It  betrayed  love  as  un- 
mistakably as  the  blush  of  a  cloud  betrays  the  dawn.  In- 
credulity swept  over  the  listener.  Petros!  The  lad  at 
whose  innocence  and  ignorance  of  the  world  he  had  so 
often  smiled!  Who  knew  nothing  of  women!  Who  was 
part  and  parcel  of  Barlaam ! 

Not  till  that  moment  did  Dimitri  realise  all  that 
Zetitzka  meant  to  him — all  that  he  hoped  for ;  more,  much 
more;  all  that  he  had  determined  to  gain.  It  had  grown 
within  him  unperceived,  yet  surely  and  swiftly,  urged  into 
maturity  by  the  Southern  impetuosity  of  his  blood.  He 
had  been  so  sure.  That  had  been  his  mistake.  He  saw 
that  now.  Kelying  on  his  own  strength  of  purpose,  he  had 
imagined  no  obstacle  which  could  not  be  overcome.  The 
breezy  optimism  of  his  nature  had  blown  the  breath  of  hope 
even  into  the  labyrinths  of  love.  Why  not?  He  knew 
himself.  He  had  ardour  sufficient  for  two,  tenacity  enough 
for  a  dozen.  He  could  wait.  Her  past  was  nothing  to  one 
who  was  resolute  to  possess  her  future. 

As  he  stood  there  in  the  darkness,  not  leaning  against 
the  wall,  but  firm  on  his  feet,  his  fists  clenched,  his  eyes  full 
of  sombre  and  jealous  fire,  a  thousand  broken  thoughts 
came  and  went  like  lurid  colours  in  a  kaleidoscope — frag- 
ments of  the  past,  dreams  of  happiness  scarce  formulated, 
schemes  for  the  future.  And  shooting  through  them  like 
a  tongue  of  flame  through  whirling  smoke,  this  new  sensa- 
tion that  was  a  gnawing  ache  and  a  keen  pain  in  one.  But 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  257 

no  fear,  no  ultimate  doubt;  for  the  indomitable  quality  of 
this  man's  blood  equalled  the  occasion. 

As  he  nerved  himself  to  speak,  a  faint  sound  from  the 
interior  of  the  Catholicon  arrested  him.  Having  no  wish 
that  others  should  discover  what  he  now  knew,  he  retreated 
noiselessly. 

A  moment  later  Petros  and  Zetitzka  were  roused  by  the 
sound  of  a  strong  cheery  voice. 

"  What,  Brother  Johannes,  you  here!  "  it  cried.  "  Go- 
ing to  count  your  dirty  old  books  ?  Nay,  come  with  me  into 
the  court,  and  I'll  tell  you  a  good  story  about  Meteoron. 
Tush,  brother,  I  make  no  noise !  Yes,  yes,  of  course  I  re- 
spect the  place.  What  say  you?  Never  seen  me  pray? 
Well,  you've  something  to  live  for,  after  all." 


17 


CHAPTER  XL 

HALF-CONCEALED  behind  one  of  the  squat  grey  pillars  of 
the  cloisters,  Dimitri  waited  for  Petros  and  Zetitzka  to 
leave  the  Catholicon.  When  at  length  they  appeared,  they 
paused  awhile  conversing  on  the  top  of  the  steps.  The 
young  monk  was  talking;  his  words,  however,  did  not 
reach  the  muleteer.  Zetitzka  was  looking  into  the  boy's 
animated  face :  that  he  engrossed  her  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  else  was  evident.  Her  countenance  had  a  new  light  of 
happiness  in  it  that  caused  it  to  shine,  singularly  sweet, 
amid  the  stern  monasticism  of  her  surroundings.  Dimitri 
set  his  teeth  hard. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  interrupt  their  conversa- 
tion, but  waited,  though  the  moments  seemed  interminable. 
The  sound  of  a  distant  voice,  raised  suddenly  in  the 
silence,  appeared  to  recall  the  lovers  to  forgotten  duties, 
for  they  parted — Zetitzka  to  her  cell,  Petros  towards  the 
refectory.  Dimitri  followed  the  latter. 

Hearing  hasty  footsteps  behind  him,  Petros  looked  round. 

"  Dimitri !  "  he  cried,  then  broke  off,  catching  sight  of  the 
muleteer's  face. 

Dimitri  stood  silent,  then  suddenly  he  laid  a  heavy  hand 
upon  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"  I  must  speak  to  you,"  he  said. 

At  the  tone  of  his  friend 's  voice,  Petros  forgot  the  supper 
awaiting  him  in  the  refectory,  forgot  even  his  customary 
service  to  the  Abbot. 

11  Now?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Yes.     Come  to  the  tower  of  the  windlass." 

They  did  not  speak  again  till  they  had  reached  the 
structure.  It  was  empty.  Not  a  sound  came  either  from 
the  monastery  behind,  or  from  the  world  below/  Seen 
through  the  open  end  of  the  hut,  the  crags,  and  farther  off, 
the  plains,  swam  in  a  golden  mist.  The  sense  of  being  sus- 
pended over  space  was  ever  present.  A  touch,  a  gust  of 

258 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  259 

wind,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  ramshackle  hut  must  col- 
lapse into  the  gorge. 

Both  men  remained  standing.  Neither  spoke — Dimitri 
striving  to  master  his  agitation,  Petros  merely  wondering. 
The  muleteer's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  distant  hills,  as 
though  seeking  something  he  could  not  find.  Suddenly 
he  wheeled  upon  his  companion. 

"  I  saw  you  in  the  library,"  he  said. 

The  stern  denunciation  in  his  eyes  caused  the  sunburnt 
brown  of  the  lad's  complexion  to  deepen  suddenly  under 
the  down  of  his  cheeks.  Yet  his  gaze  did  not  falter.  On 
the  contrary,  he  returned  Dimitri 's  stare  with  a  candid 
innocence  of  regard,  though  there  was  that  in  his  face  that 
told  of  a  mute  appeal  for  comprehension. 

"  How  long  has  this  been  going  on?  " 

For  a  moment  Petros  felt  inclined  to  resent  this  cross- 
examination,  but  an  earnestness,  strangely  compelling,  in 
his  companion's  manner  induced  him  to  reply. 

Dimitri  looked  at  him  searchingly.  The  boy  seemed  to 
feel  no  shame.  His  face  was  unusually  grave,  but  his  eyes 
held  a  strange  inward  light,  while  his  voice  told  of  a 
subdued  and  solemn  gladness.  Sorely  perplexed,  Dimitri 
continued  to  stare  at  him.  Had  he  forgotten  his  vows? 
How  far  was  he  guilty?  There  was  something  in  his  ex- 
pression that  disarmed  suspicion.  It  baffled  the  muleteer; 
more,  it  made  him  angry;  but  rather  at  something  within 
himself  than  at  this  young  monk,  who — devil  take  him — 
eluded  anger. 

Suddenly  the  crux  of  the  matter  flashed  across  him. 

"  You  love  her?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

11  She  loves  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  replies  carried  conviction.  The  tone  of  the  last 
affirmative  amazed  the  muleteer,  even  through  the  pain  it 
inflicted.  It  seemed  not  so  much  an  answer  to  his  ques- 
tion as  to  some  inner  voice  in  the  lad's  own  bosom  whose 
mouthpiece,  he,  Dimitri,  had  unconsciously  become.  It  was 
the  hushed,  reverent,  and  almost  incredulous  recognition  of 
a  truth  too  wonderful,  too  beautiful  to  be  true. 

' '  You  made  her  love  you  ?  ' ' 

The  baseless  charge  conveyed  nothing  to  Petros.     But 


260  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

full  of  the  idea,  urged  by  a  jealous  pain,  Dimitri  continued, 
passion  overcoming  reason. 

"  I  see — I  see  now.  By'r  Lady,  yes.  You  have  known 
it  all  this  time — and  I — like  a  fool — hoodwinked!  " 

He  broke  off  with  a  gesture.  Unworthy  suspicions  again 
tainted  his  mind.  The  night  spent  in  the  deserted  monas- 
tery— these  two,  alone — the  freedom  of  access  to  her  cell 
at  all  hours,  by  order  of  the  superior — the  ignorance  of  the 
brethren  that  raised  no  obstacle  to  their  companionship — the 
simplicity  of  the  Abbot,  itself  almost  a  connivance — all  were 
known  to  him,  for  little  passed  in  the  monastery  without 
coming  to  his  ears. 

"  If  you  have  wronged  her "  he  broke  out  thickly. 

Startled  by  the  menace  in  his  companion's  voice,  Petros 
stared  at  him  in  amazement.  There  was  a  troubled  look  in 
the  boy's  eyes  that  told  of  one  striving  vainly  to  under- 
stand ;  but  no  guilt ;  above  all,  no  shrinking.  Again  Dimi- 
tri felt  abashed.  Muttering  something  that  sounded  like 
an  apology,  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Petros  took  it  frankly,  then  a  look  of  grave  concern 
overspread  his  face. 

"I  am  guilty,  Dimitri,"  he  confessed,  almost  in  a 
whisper. 

The  muleteer  started,  but  Petros  continued  quickly. 
"  Ay,  guilty  of  the  sin  of  concealment.  Nay,  shrug  not 
your  shoulders;  'tis  a  black  sin,  God  forgive  me.  Since 
Lavra  I  have  known,  yet  have  I  hid  the  knowledge  of  it 
from  the  Abbot." 

It  was  noteworthy  that  for  the  moment  he  remembered 
only  his  broken  vows,  as  though  the  yoke  of  monastic  life 
— the  yoke  that  subjugated  all  upon  whom  it  fell,  to  the 
dead  level  of  unquestioning  obedience — had  at  length  re- 
asserted its  sway.  But  at  the  next  moment  the  lover  leaped 
out. 

"  How  could  I  help  it?  " 

The  cry  rang  with  an  indescribable  intensity  of  fervour. 

Dimitri  drew  a  long  breath.  His  heart  was  like  lead. 
Anger  had  left  him ;  only  wonder  and  pity  remained. 

The  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  mountains.  The 
austerity  of  the  great  cliffs  became  soft,  even  tender. 
Their  crests  shone  with  the  dull  lustre  of  beaten  gold. 
Here  and  there,  where  the  sun  struck  fire  from  a  flint,  it 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  261 

was  as  if  a  jewel  flashed,  or  a  star  had  fallen;  the  light 
of  its  presence  trembling  on  the  verge  of  profound  abysses. 
The  distance  was  a  sea  of  splendour  above  which  the  more 
remote  of  the  crags  towered  like  sentinels,  or  floated  like 
islands. 

Something  of  the  fugitive  glory  fell  into  the  little  eyrie 
of  a  hut.  It,  too,  became  transfigured.  The  opening — its 
window  and  door  in  one — looked  down  upon  many  of  the 
adjacent  hills.  It  had  become  a  square  that  allured,  while 
it  dazzled.  The  level  beams,  slanting  inwards,  suffused 
the  faces  of  the  occupants.  This  world-wide  peace  re- 
proached the  two  men.  It  formed  a  trenchant  contrast  to 
their  agitation. 

"  Yes,  I  blame  myself,"  cried  the  young  monk  passion- 
ately. "  Yet,  I  vow,  as  God  seeth  me,  that  it  was  for  her. 
Only  at  first,  not  later,"  he  added  hastily,  as  though  eager 
to  correct  a  false  impression.  "  Nay,  later  I  would  have 
done  it  for  myself.  Brother  Nicodemus  would  say  that  I 
am  damned.  But — I  care  not.  No;  I  care  not!  " 

He  repeated  the  last  words  with  defiant  obstinacy,  his 
head  in  the  air,  a  touch  of  his  old  boyish  impetuosity. 
It  was  evident  that  he  was  trying  to  convince,  talk  down, 
not  the  muleteer,  but  some  invisible  personality,  his  other 
self,  the  twin  possessor  of  his  soul.  His  sincerity  was  un- 
questionable. He  recoiled  from  even  the  possibility  of  de- 
ception. 

"  We  must  think  of  her,"  said  Dimitri  gruffly. 

The  face  of  the  boy  lighted. 

"  She  cannot  stay  here." 

There  was  no  comment. 

' '  She  must  go  away — at  once. ' ' 

Still  no  reply. 

"  Come,"  said  the  muleteer,  disguising  his  feelings 
under  rough  impatience.  ' '  Saints  above !  what  do  you  ex- 
pect? " 

11  I?" 

"  Yes,  you." 

"  Nothing." 

Such  hopeless  misery  became  audible  in  the  word  that 
Dimitri  looked  hastily  at  his  companion.  The  lad's  ap- 
pearance shocked  him.  He  recalled  the  Petros  he  had 
known  all  these  years,  merry  and  boyishly  serious  by  turns ; 


262  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

the  young  presence  that  appealed  at  sight  to  the  sympa- 
thies of  everyone,  even  to  soured  old  men  like  Nicodemus 
and  Apostoli — above  all,  the  youth  and  the  gaiety!  The 
contrast  was  poignant.  It  made  him  indignant,  as 
though  he  had  been  decoyed  by  fate  into  playing  the  part 
of  executioner.  His  anger  vented  itself  upon  his  com- 
panion. 

"  You  are  a  monk,"  he  blurted  with  unreasoning  ani- 
mosity ;  then,  as  his  victim  winced,  he  continued  with  more 
and  more  heat. 

' '  My  God,  this  is  too  much !  You  fall  in  love — you,  a 
monk!  You  make  love  to  her;  ay,  you  do;  no  need  to 
look  at  me  like  that,  confound  your  innocence.  What? 
You  pretend  to  teach  me — me!  Dimitri!  versed  in  the 
affairs  of  the  heart !  And  now  that  you  have  done  all  this 
harm,  you  wish  to  keep  her  here — here,  in  Barlaam.  Sacred 
Name !  Imbecile !  And  the  danger  ?  To  her  ?  Bethink 
you,  if  they  caught  her — Apostoli,  for  example.  Ah,  that 
touches  you  near  ?  I  should  think  so.  You  had  forgotten. 
That  is  what  it  is  to  be  a  monk.  Ah !  to  the  devil  with  all 
monks!  " 

He  broke  off  with  a  violent  gesture,  his  face  aflame; 
then  muttered,  ' '  There,  there !  No  need  to  take  it  like 
that." 

But  Petros  did  not  move.  His  eyes  stared  as  though 
fixed  on  some  invisible  catastrophe.  Dimitri 's  compunction 
increased. 

"  You  could  not  tell,"  he  continued,  gruffly  as  ever. 
' '  Were  I  your  age,  and  a  monk,  and  ignorant,  I  would  have 
done  the  same.  As  it  is,  I  have  often  done  worse,  and  now 
— I  preach !  ' ' 

His  gesture  signified  profound  self -contempt.  A  moment 
of  silence  then,  ' '  Brother  Petros, ' '  he  said  softly. 

Eliciting  no  reply,  he  continued: 

"  Bethink  you.  You  are  a  monk.  I  have  been  against 
it  from  the  first,  God  knows ;  but  it  was  none  of  my  busi- 
ness. You  cannot  marry  her.  Look  you,  she  is  helpless 
— a  woman.  Moreover,  she  loves  you,  and  women  are  weak 
when  they  love.  Believe  me,  I  know ;  I  who  speak  to  you. 
Her  life  is  not  here — 'tis  there."  He  gesticulated  towards 
the  sunlight.  "  Let  her  go.  Look  you,  she  has  but  us  to 
help  her.  I,"  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  "  I  am  nothing  to 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  263 

her.  She  does  not  even  see  me.  But  you — she  will  listen 
to  you.  Let  her  go.  For  her  sake." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  awed  into  silence  by  the  trouble 
his  words  evoked.  He  felt  awkward,  ashamed,  for  he 
recognised  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  some  naked  emo- 
tion— despair,  it  might  be — stripped  of  all  shreds  of  the 
reserve  that  constitutes  decency. 

The  chin  of  the  young  monk  had  sunk  to  his  chest.  He 
was  incapable  of  pronouncing  a  word,  but  deep  in  his  throat 
he  made  an  inarticulate  noise  like  a  man  imperfectly 
stunned  by  a  blow  on  the  head.  It  was  pitiful. 

All  at  once  he  wrenched  himself  away,  as  though  the 
scrutiny  of  a  fellow-being  had  become  insufferable  to  him 
and  strode  to  the  opening  of  the  hut. 

The  muleteer  watched  with  apprehension.  Petros  now 
stood  stock-still,  his  hand  clutching  the  rail,  his  slight  figure 
an  intense  black  against  the  intense  brightness  of  the  sun- 
set. He  was  fighting — fighting. 

The  utter  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  faint  creaking 
of  the  rotting  woodwork,  as  the  heat  left  it  at  the  slow  and 
relentless  approach  of  night. 

It  was  his  utter  loneliness  that  moved  Dimitri.  He 
looked  lost,  helpless;  he  had  no  one  to  whom  he  could 
turn ;  and  yet,  he  was  only  twenty-one.  His  visible  pluck 
made  this  the  more  affecting.  Dimitri  thought  of  his  own 
mother,  and  all  that  she  had  been  to  him  in  moments  of 
boyish  distress.  Just  a  word,  a  hand  passed  caressingly 
over  his  hair,  a  motherly  shoulder  against  which  he  could 
rest  his  head — just  these,  but  these  at  the  time  had  been 
everything.  But  Petros  had  no  mother,  could  recall  the 
touch  of  no  woman's  hand — save  one,  and  now  fate  was 
demanding  of  him  never  to  touch  it  again. 

He  stood  on  the  brink  of  a  despair  as  profound  and 
inimical  to  life  as  the  chasm  that  yawned  at  his  feet. 
There  was  courage  in  his  attitude.  His  head  was  uplifted 
as  though  he  were  looking  someone — his  sorrow  it  might  be 
— straight  in  the  eyes.  His  long  shadow  fell  black  as  a 
pall  across  the  decayed  flooring  of  the  hut,  and  loomed 
immense  and  extravagant  athwart  the  windlass.  By  a 
fantastic  trick  of  circumstance,  strangely  symbolical,  this 
shadow  appeared  to  be  hung  upon  two  of  the  mighty  arms 
which,  with  the  upright  that  supported  them,  took  the 
form  of  a  cross. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

AT  length  Petros  turned  his  back  on  the  light.  Dimitri, 
hearing  him  approach,  feigned  interest  in  his  whip.  His 
practised  ears  noted  the  extreme  listlessness  of  the  boy's 
movements,  audible  in  the  dragging  of  his  sandals  over 
the  worn  flooring.  The  muleteer  shrank  from  speech. 
There  was  a  nakedness  about  the  grief  he  had  been  forced 
to  witness  that  seemed  to  silence  comment. 

It  came  to  him  that  he  had  wofully  misjudged  Petros. 
He  had  thought  of  him  only  as  a  boy,  almost  a  child,  in- 
capable of  deep  feeling.  But  this  despair  spoke  for  itself. 
It  filled  the  witness  with  suppressed  resentment  and  a  long- 
ing to  do  something  violent.  It  also  woke  respect  for  one 
who  could  feel  so  passionately,  yet  take  punishment  with 
head  erect  and  no  complaint  upon  his  lips. 

"  I  will  tell  her,"  said  Petros.  He  spoke  as  if  all  emo- 
tion had  been  drained  out  of  him.  Dimitri  nodded,  but 
without  looking  up. 

11  For  when  had  it  better  be?  " 

"  To-morrow,"  muttered  the  muleteer — "  to-morrow 
night." 

As  he  spoke  he  felt,  rather  than  saw,  his  companion 
wince. 

"  I  can  be  here,"  he  continued  with  constraint,  "  with 
Nikola.  We  can  take  her  as  far  as  the  frontier  " — he 
paused,  and  stroked  his  chin — "  or  farther,  if  necessary." 

Petros  assented.  Again  a  casual  observer  would  have 
judged  him  indifferent,  but  his  unnatural  calm  filled 
Dimitri  with  vague  alarm. 

"  She  has  told  me  something — not  all,"  said  the  boy  in 
a  low  voice.     "  I  am  loath  to  send  her  back  to  her  parents. 
They  treat  her  cruelly.     She  said  she  had  only  her  baby. ' ' 
The  muleteer  looked  towards  him  quickly. 

"  Her  child!  "  explained  Petros. 

"Her  own  child!  " 

264 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  265 

"Yes." 

"  But — she  is  not  married?  " 
"No." 

Dimitri  still  stared  at  the  shadow  that  now  represented 
his  companion.  That  this  information  conveyed  little  or 
nothing  to. the  boy  did  not  surprise  him;  but  to  him  it  was 
illuminating.  It  did  not  account  for  Zetitzka's  presence 
in  the  monastery — though  that  the  one  had  to  do  with  the 
other  struck  him  as  a  possibility.  It  was  characteristic  of 
him  that  the  only  lively  emotion  he  felt  was  a  grim  ani- 
mosity towards  her  betrayer.  Being  practical,  however,  the 
present  at  once  claimed  him. 

* '  Why  did  she  come  here  ?  "  he  questioned. 

For  some  time  there  was  no  answer.  The  silence  was 
broken  only  by  the  far-off  bleating  of  goats  driven  home- 
ward at  nightfall.  Somewhat  surprised,  Dimitri  repeated 
the  question. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Petros  slowly. 

"You  don't  know!  " 

"  Nay;  she  never  told  me,  and  I  never  thought  to 
ask." 

There  was  such  indifference  to  all  immaterial  considera- 
tions in  the  answer  that  Dimitri  uttered  an  exclamation. 
As  he  pondered,  it  struck  him  as  strange  that  neither  he 
nor  Petros  knew  much  about  the  woman  they  loved. 

' '  I  did  think  of  it  once, ' '  continued  Petros, ' '  on  that  day 
after  Lavra.  It  seemed  a  sacrilege  then.  But  later  " — 
he  drew  a  deep  breath — "  I  saw  it  was  naught — less  than 
naught.  I  forgot  all  about  it." 

Dimitri  grunted. 

"  Do  you  know  that  too?  "  whispered  Petros. 

"  What?  " 

"  That  nothing  matters — nothing! — so  long  as  she  is 
here?  " 

There  was  no  reply.  Petros  looked  up  at  the  big  figure 
looming  in  the  dusk.  He  seemed  to  see  his  companion  in 
a  new  light.  It  was  as  though  a  wave  of  sympathy  had 
brought  them  together. 

"  Do  you  love  her  too?  "  he  asked  reverently. 

Dimitri  laughed.     There  was  pain  in  the  sound. 

Petros  stared  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  make  love,"  said  the  muleteer.    He 


266  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

paused,  then  added  bitterly:    "  I  leave  that  to  monks!  " 

He  could  not  resist  -  the  thrust,  yet  felt  ashamed  the 
moment  it  was  uttered.  But,  like  a  previous  sarcasm,  it 
passed  harmlessly  over  the  head  of  Petros. 

"  I  thought  all  the  world  must  love  her,"  said  the  lad 
simply. 

Dimitri  chafed. 

"  Time  presses!  "  he  cried.  "  And  you  and  I  talk  of 
ourselves. ' ' 

His  irritation  aroused  his  companion.  For  awhile  they 
conversed  in  low  tones,  for  the  mysterious  shadows  that 
had  crept  upwards  from  the  ravine  seemed  to  impart  an 
air  of  secrecy  to  their  interview.  There  was  melancholy 
in  the  waning  light.  Nature  seemed  to  grow  grey  and 
wan  in  sympathy  with  hopes  destined  never  to  be  realised. 
It  encompassed  the  young  monk,  isolating  him  from  his 
companion,  making  him  one  with  the  slowly  blurring  ghost 
of  the  monastery.  It  ate  into  his  heart  like  a  corrosive 
acid — it  and  the  silence,  which  was  profound,  impassive, 
disdainful,  symbolical  of  laws  imperious  and  irrevocable. 
For  these  preparations  made  him  feel  as  though  he  were 
deciding  the  hour  and  manner,  not  so  much  of  his  own 
death,  as  the  death  of  someone  whose  life  was  inexpressibly 
more  precious  to  him. 

"  We  must  get  her  away  without  anyone  seeing,"  con- 
cluded Dimitri.  "  And  afterwards  " — he  turned  abruptly 
to  his  companion — "  afterwards — next  day — what  will  you 
do?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Come!  you  must  have  some  plan.  Devil  take  me,  if 
I  like  to  let  you  face  it  alone!  They  will  miss  her:  they 
will  question  you.  Come,  rouse  yourself!  This  is  im- 
portant— for  you." 

"  Is  it?  "  The  boy's  voice  had  sunk  into  some  depth 
of  numbed  sensation.  Dimitri  muttered  an  oath. 

"  "What  will  you  say?  "  he  asked  impatiently. 

"  I  will  tell  the  venerable  father." 

"All?  " 

"All." 

"  Well,  'tis  perhaps  the  best  thing.  It  must  come  out — 
in  confession,  eh?  But — he  will  be  angry." 

Petros  kept  silent 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  267 

"You  don't  care!  " 

The  boy  sighed  wearily.  "  You  don't  understand,"  he 
cried.  ' '  Why  talk  of  me  ?  Anger — penance — it  is  all  one. 
Can't  you  see?  Can't  you  see?  "  His  voice  rose  in  sud- 
den and  querulous  remonstrance:  it  was  as  though  he  re- 
proached his  companion  for  dragging  him  upwards  to  where 
suffering  was  forced  to  become  articulate.  "  Can't  you 
see?  Nothing  will  matter  then !" 

Again  a  rush  of  impotent  anger  swept  over  Dimitri.  He 
could  have  cursed  the  monastery. 

"  Brother  Petros,"  he  began,  "  when  two  dogs  fight,  one 
ought  not  to  be  muzzled." 

"  Fight?     There  can  be  no  talk  of  fighting  between  us." 

Dimitri 'g  brows  contracted.  The  loyalty  and  candour  of 
the  boy's  nature  reproached  him  with  double-dealing — nay 
more,  with  falsehood.  Goaded  by  remorse,  he  muttered 
inarticulately : 

"  What  is  it?" 

The  young  voice  came  to  Dimitri  from  the  darkness.  He 
had  not  noticed  before  how  dark  it  had  become.  The  slow 
irresistible  progress  of  the  night,  blurring  all  details,  steal- 
ing inwards  from  the  gloomy  world  without,  burying  all 
things  deeper  and  deeper  as  though  it  were  a  fall  of  im- 
palpable black  dust. 

"  I  have  deceived  you,"  muttered  the  muleteer  awk- 
wardly. "  I— I How  am  I  to  tell ?  " 

There  was  silence.  Not  only  the  motionless  figure  at 
his  side  seemed  to  be  listening  without  movement,  but 
everything — the  hut,  the  shadows,  the  windlass — seemed  to 
be  listening  too. 

Dimitri  continued : 

"  You  asked  me  if  I  loved  her.  I  said  no.  It — it  was  a 
lie." 

A  faint  movement  came  from  the  darkness,  whether  of 
surprise  or  anger  the  muleteer  could  not  tell.  He  con- 
tinued sternly : 

' '  I  lied  to  you.  Do  you  understand  ?  I  love  her.  Good 
God !  can't  you  speak?  Don't  you  hear?  I  lied  to  you !  " 

"  Why?  " 

There  came  a  short  mirthless  laugh;  then:  "  Why  does 
one  ever  lie?  I  was  a  coward.  Yes,"  he  insisted  angrily, 
as  though  contradicted,  "  a  coward.  If  another  said 


268  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

that His  gesture  was  ominous.  "  Yet  it  would  be 

true.  But  you — I  saw — fighting  it  out — the  devil  of  a  busi- 
ness !  By  the  saints !  a  lesson  to  a  shirker  like  me !  " 

"  Then— you  love  her  too?  " 

"Yes." 

"I  am  glad." 

Dimitri 's  jaw  fell.  He  Had  nerved  himself  to  the  con- 
fession, prepared  for  anger,  reproaches,  above  all,  for 
jealousy.  But  this ! 

"  Yes,  I  am  glad,"  repeated  the  voice  at  his  side,  in 
an  imperturbable  monotone,  which,  more  than  anything  else, 
more  even  than  the  sinister  gloom  of  the  surroundings, 
troubled  the  mind  with  suggestions  of  profound  and  hope- 
less desolation.  "  I  am  glad.  She  is  alone — unhappy. 
There  will  be  no  one  to  take  care  of  her.  I  " — his  voice 
faltered — "  I  must  stay  here.  But  you  are  free." 

Dimitri  stood  awed.  Not  a  doubt  of  the  intensity  of  this 
love  came  to  him.  Had  it  not  been  visible  in  the  boy's 
agony  as  he  stood  on  the  precipice  brink?  "Was  it  not 
audible  still  in  the  dull  note  of  pain?  Yet — to  give  her 
up — and  to  another ! 

"  If "  he  began,  but  paused,  mentally  recoiling  from 

what  he  was  about  to  say. 

"  What?  "  questioned  the  boy. 

"  If  you  were  free — if  there  were  no  obstacle,  no  cursed 
monastery,  I  mean " 

Petros  stared  at  him  in  dull  astonishment. 

"  By  Saint  Barlaam!  I  have  a  mind  to  do  it!  Why 
not?  I  hate  the  place  for  what  it  has  done  to  you.  See, 
then,  Brother  Petros,  if  you  will  run  away  with  her,  devil 
take  me  but  I  will  aid  you  by  every  means  in  my  power — 
ay,  even  to  lying  to  the  monks  till  I  'm  black  in  the  face ! 
No  need  to  thank  me.  I  do  it  for  her  sake. ' ' 

He  had  laid  an  appealing  hand  on  the  boy's  arm.  In 
the  darkness  his  deep  voice  vibrated  with  intense  earnest- 
ness. But  Petros  had  no  thought  of  thanking  him.  The 
figure  the  muleteer  touched  stood  motionless  and  silent, 
as  if  turned  to  stone. 

Dimitri  continued :  ' '  Child  that  you  are,  you  don 't  know 
what  you  will  miss.  How  should  you?  They  have  kept 
you  in  ignorance.  You  have  rights.  Do  you  know  that? 
Every  honest  man  has  a  right  to  a  good  woman's  love. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  269 

Here  they  seek  to  rob  you  of  it.  Don't  talk  to  me  of 
vows!  Did  you  know  all  you  were  promising  when  you 
took  them?  No,  I  bet  you  didn't.  Bah!  they  made  you 
sign  an  agreement  with  your  eyes  shut.  It's  like  selling 
a  spavined  mule  to  a  blind  man.  Cheating,  that's  what 
they  call  it  down  there  in  the  world.  Don't  talk  to  me 
of  religion !  I  know  the  good  God.  He  is  just :  He  would 
scorn  to  act  like  that.  He  made  men  for  women  and 
women  for  men.  He  will  forgive  if  you  stick  to  her,  and 
treat  this  cursed  monastery  like — like  that!  "  He  snapped 
his  fingers.  "  Hey,  now!  What  is  it?  " 

Petros  had  disengaged  himself  brusquely. 

"  You  know  not  what  you  say !  " 

The  muleteer  uttered  a  contemptuous  exclamation. 

' '  It  is  true, ' '  continued  Petros  vehemently.  "  It  is  true. 
You  speak  heedlessly,  in  ignorance.  You  do  not  under- 
stand. I  have  sinned — yet,  God  forgive  me!  I  would 
joyously  do  it  again.  I  must  bear  the  punishment.  I  am 
a  monk.  Naught  under  heaven  or  on  earth  can  alter  that. 
My  place  is  here." 

Dimitri  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Yet  even  in  the  midst 
of  his  very  genuine  sorrow,  he  was  guiltily  conscious  of  a 
selfish  joy.  Indignant  with  himself,  he  said  sullenly: 

"  Tis  you  who  do  not  understand." 

* '  I  do  understand.  It  means  that  you  will  love  her,  and 
take  care  of  her  when  I  am  dead — dead  to  her.  Yes,  that 
will  be  best." 

For  long  neither  spoke.  There  seemed  nothing  further 
to  say.  For  his  part,  Dimitri  was  bewildered  with  the 
transformation  of  the  boy  he  had  known  into  this  voice 
beside  him.  But,  through  amazement  and  indignation,  his 
heart  went  out  in  sympathy  to  the  lad  who,  he  sur- 
mised, was  suffering  as  only  those  can  who  have  staked 
their  all  upon  one  throw  of  life's  dice,  and  have 
lost. 

A  faint  cry  reached  them.  Weird  and  remote,  it  wailed 
disconsolately  from  the  benighted  passage.  Dimitri  lis- 
tened, but  the  sound  was  not  repeated.  The  monastic 
silence  closed  in,  resettling  itself  like  the  waters  of  a  black 
and  stagnant  pool  momentarily  disturbed  by  the  plunge  of 
a  stone. 

"  Someone  calls,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 


270  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

There  was  no  comment. 

"  Who  can  it  be,"  he  whispered  uneasily,  "  at  this 
hour?  " 

A  muffled  sound  beside  him  indicated  absolute  indif- 
ference. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

UPON  the  same  evening,  about  the  sunset  hour,  there 
strode  along  a  lonely  path  a  solitary  figure  in  monastic 
garb.  Stephanos,  for  it  was  he,  was  on  his  way  to  col- 
lect the  rent  of  an  outlying  farm,  the  last  of  his  places  of 
call. 

Around  the  monk  a  fine  wild  landscape  extended, 
especially  towards  the  west,  where  the  hills,  rugged  and 
blue  as  uncut  sapphires,  shouldered  the  after-glow.  Be- 
tween these,  but  rapidly  blurring  in  the  waning  light,  lay 
ridge  upon  ridge,  heathery,  craggy,  full  of  formless 
obscurity  and  already  withdrawn  into  conscious  isolation, 
anticipating  the  night.  All  was  bare,  barren,  with  the 
treeless  nudity  that  saddens  the  traveller  on  Grecian  up- 
lands, due — if  the  peasants  be  credited — to  the  depreda- 
tions of  the  marauding  Turk.  A  fine,  savage,  natural 
landscape  none  the  less,  with  never  a  sign  of  man's  hand 
or  a  trace  of  his  passage,  save  the  path  worn  by  countless 
generations  of  feet,  and  flung  in  loops,  like  a  coil  of  grey 
rope,  round  buttress  and  hummock,  rocky  rise  and  chan- 
nelled slope. 

The  monk  walked  rapidly,  with  bowed  head.  His 
sombre  figure,  now  climbing,  now  descending,  but  throw- 
ing the  miles  behind  it  with  long  preoccupied  strides,  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  a  phantom,  for  his  naked  feet  were 
noiseless  on  the  stones. 

There  was  something  feverish  and  insistent  in  the  soli- 
tary wayfarer,  in  the  knotted  hands  clutching  the  rosary, 
in  the  bowed  head,  and  in  the  tense  and  nervous  energy 
of  the  movements,  that  formed  a  trenchant  contrast  with 
the  deep  and  all-pervading  peace  that,  "  falling,  as  day 
fell  too,"  brooded  over  mountain  and  valley.  This  con- 
trast was  further  emphasised  by  his  eccentricity;  for  his 
stride,  though  long  and  unwearying,  was  not  continuous. 
At  times  he  would  halt  abruptly,  fall  into  profound  con- 

271 


272  FOKBIDDEN  GROUND 

templation,  his  eyes  fixed  vacantly  on  the  stones  or  the 
misty  outline  of  the  hills,  then,  rousing  himself  with  an 
effort,  would  hastily  resume  the  road. 

The  darkness  was  rising  steadily  like  an  exhalation. 
Objects  at  a  little  distance  melted  and  blurred  into  each 
other,  baffling  vision.  Background  and  foreground  were 
merged  into  one  beneath  the  tent  of  night. 

All  at  once  a  dog  barked.  The  sound,  breaking  rudely 
upon  the  silence,  was  sufficient  to  arouse  fear  in  an  un- 
armed man,  for  dogs  in  the  mountainous  district  of  Thes- 
saly  are  savage  as  wolves.  But  the  monk  betrayed  no 
alarm.  Swinging  round  a  rocky  spur,  he  became  con- 
scious of  a  dull  red  glow  relieving  the  obscurity  upon  his 
right. 

The  animal  came  bounding  along  the  track.  Its  bestial 
clamour  never  ceased.  Stephanos,  muttering  a  prayer, 
continued  to  advance.  Reaching  the  monk,  the  dog  checked 
abruptly,  seized  by  the  instinctive  cowardice  of  animals 
confronted  by  fearlessness  in  man. 

Before  Stephanos  could  gain  the  cottage,  the  door  opened, 
and  a  woman's  voice  was  heard  calling  the  animal  by 
name.  It,  however,  seemed  unable  either  to  leave  or  attack 
the  wayfarer.  Its  deep  growls  changed  to  a  pleading  and 
nasal  whine,  a  sound  of  almost  human  intelligence. 

Raising  his  voice,  Stephanos  informed  the  woman  of  the 
object  of  his  visit. 

"  My  man  is  ill,"  she  said  apologetically.  "  But  come 
in." 

Stephanos  refused.  He  preferred  to  wait,  he  said,  out- 
side. The  woman  disappeared.  Through  the  open  door 
her  voice  could  be  heard,  raised  slightly,  as  though  her 
auditor  were  deaf.  A  man's  voice  answered  her,  then  all 
was  still.  Without,  in  the  darkness,  the  only  sounds  were 
the  clicking  of  the  monk's  beads.  The  ghostly  mass  of 
farm  buildings  loomed  out,  a  darkness  against  a  darkness 
that  was  broken  only  by  the  dull  glow  that,  issuing  from 
the  cottage  door,  formed  a  pathway  of  faintly-graduated 
light. 

All  at  once  Stephanos  drew  back,  for  the  woman  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  holding  a  lighted  candle.  His 
sudden  movement  took  the  dog  by  surprise,  for  it  leapt 
aside,  the  coarse  hair  upon  its  neck  bristling. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  273 

Looking  at  the  visitor  with  frank  curiosity,  the  woman 
said: 

"  My  husband  says  why  not  come  in?  He  expected 
you  to  stay  the  night." 

The  monk  stood  before  her,  silent,  with  averted  eyes. 
She  continued:  "  Last  year  it  was  Brother — Brother 
Johannes,  I  think  he  was  called;  and  the  year  before, 
Brother  Apostoli.  They  both  stayed  over-night.  It  is  late ; 
there  is  no  inn  near,  nor  other  house  for  the  matter  of  that. 
Will  you  not  change  your  mind  and  stay  ?  ' ' 

"  Nay,  I  must  be  gone." 

"  Well  " — she  shrugged  her  plump  shoulders — "  it  is  as 
you  like,  of  course.  You  look  tired,  and  the  night  is  dark. 
I  am  sorry  you  must  go.  You  will,  at  all  events,  eat  some- 
thing; we  would  be  loath  to  turn  a  stranger  supperless 
from  our  door.  I  have  been  baking,  and " 

* '  Give  me  the  money  and  let  me  go. ' ' 

The  woman  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  Her  first  im- 
pulse was  to  take  offence;  but  something,  for  which  she 
could  not  account,  tied  her  tongue.  In  silence,  that  was 
not  without  dignity,  she  paid  him  and  watched  while  he 
concealed  the  money  beneath  his  cassock.  Mumbling  some- 
thing that  might  have  been  a  valediction,  he  turned  ab- 
ruptly and  strode  away.  Still  she  watched,  the  receipt 
he  had  given  her  held  absent-mindedly  in  her  hand,  her 
lighted  face  eloquent  with  the  feelings  she  longed  to  ex- 
press. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Stephanos,  rounding  a  corner  with 
his  usual  precipitation,  came  into  collision  with  another 
wayfarer.  The  latter,  all  but  invisible  in  the  darkness, 
was  on  his  hands  and  knees,  for  his  head  came  in  contact 
with  the  pit  of  the  monk's  stomach. 

"A  hundred  thousand  devils!"  vociferated  an  angry 
voice.  "  Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  mean?  Cannot 
you  take  heed  where  you  walk?  May  an  honest  pedlar 
not  look  for  an  accursed  key  without  being  assaulted?  " 

Want  of  breath  prevented  Stephanos  from  replying. 
The  stranger  gave  vent  to  a  short  laugh. 

"  I  seem  to  have  knocked  the  wind  out  of  you,  at  any 
rate.  That  will  balance  our  account.  Well,  are  you  dumb 
as  well  as  clumsy  ?  Eh  ?  Give  me  a  match. ' ' 

Stephanos  handed  him  flint  and  steel.  The  unknown 
18 


274  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

took  it  ungraciously.  Stephanos,  looking  silently  down 
on  the  blackness  that  represented  the  stranger,  made  out 
a  blurred  mass,  without  detail,  faintly  distinguishable  from 
the  track.  For  some  time  the  pedlar  was  heard  groping 
in  a  bundle,  swearing  to  himself  the  while ;  then  a  candle 
flickered  into  light.  It  made  a  little  circle  of  kindly 
luminosity  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  surrounding  black- 
ness. The  two  men  showed  plain,  the  one  erect,  the  other 
still  on  his  knees.  The  key  found,  the  unknown  rose 
to  his  feet  and  held  the  lighted  candle  close  to  the  monk's 
face. 

"  Stephanos!  "  he  ejaculated  in  surprise. 

"  Brother  Stephanos,"  corrected  the  monk. 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure.    You  know  me?  " 

"  I  know  you,  Nik  Leka." 

The  pedlar  laughed,  then  suddenly  sobered.  Blowing 
out  the  light,  he  asked : 

"  Where  are  you  going?  What!  To  Barlaam?  You 
cannot  reach  it  to-night.  Better  turn  back  with  me.  I 
sleep  at  the  farm  you  have  just  passed.  No?  Well,  you 
know  your  own  business  best,  and  perhaps  'tis  better  to  part 
before  I  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you." 

Since  recognising  Stephanos,  he  had  slid  naturally  into 
the  dialect  of  the  mountains. 

The  monk  made  no  reply.  Irritated  by  his  silence,  the 
pedlar  broke  forth  again. 

"  'Tis  not  complimentary.  Oh,  be  sure  of  that!  Why 
didn't  you  marry  the  girl  instead  of  running  away — you 
coward?  " 

Still  the  sombre  figure  did  not  reply. 

"  She  was  too  good  for  you,"  accused  the  gruff  voice, 
as  though  airing  an  ancient  grievance.  "  I  know  her,  an 
angel,  young,  pretty.  What  did  she  see  in  you?  Blessed 
saints !  in  you!  But  women  are  too  good  for  men.  They 
will  have  it  made  up  to  them  in  heaven,  poor  dears." 
Then,  with  a  swift  rush  of  anger:  "  By  God,  monk  or 
no  monk,  you  deserve  to  be  flogged !  ' ' 

Stephanos  trembled,  not  from  fear,  but  from  the  violence 
of  his  effort  at  self-control.  His  thin  hands  clenched  upon 
his  rosary.  The  touch  of  the  worn  beads  steadied  him. 
He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  he  muttered. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  275 

"Understand?  Faugh!  I  understand  enough.  If  she 
had  asked  me  to  kill  you,  I  would  have  done  it  with 
pleasure.  God  in  heaven!  she  even  touched  the  heart  of 
an  old  crab-apple  like  me — me!  Nik  Leka!  " 

He  threw  out  his  arms,  then,  recalling  his  pack,  began 
to  buckle  it  on  to  his  shoulders. 

"  But  she  did  not  want  you  killed,"  he  growled,  tugging 
at  a  strap.  "  Women  are  soft.  They  pardon  too  easily. 
Ah,  she  has  courage!  A  fine  girl!  Few  women  would 
have  made  the  journey  alone — and  all  for  a  man  who  had 
deserted  her." 

He  spat  angrily,  and  turned  to  resume  the  road. 
'  What  journey?  "  inquired  the  monk. 

"  To  Barlaam,  of  course." 

l(  She! — she  went  to  Barlaam!  " 

"  Assuredly.     What  have  you  done  with  her?  " 
'  What  do  you  mean?  " 

' '  Bah !  why  seek  to  deceive  me  ?  You  know  well  what 
I  mean.  She  went  to  Barlaam  to  see  you ;  two — no,  three 
weeks  ago.  I  saw  her  at  the  frontier  Khan  myself.  She 
has  not  returned ;  that  I  know.  She  had  a  disguise.  She 
might  have  hoodwinked  the  monks — but  not  you,  for  you 
knew.  What  have  you  done  with  her?  Out  with  it! 
Where  is  she?  " 

Stephanos  stood  dumb. 

Nik  Leka  came  a  step  nearer.  The  two  men  were  now 
so  close  as  to  appear  one.  The  pedlar's  solitary  eye 
glared  upwards  to  where  the  face  of  the  monk  made  a 
visible  pallor  under  his  tall  hat. 

"  If,"  said  he  thickly,  "  if  you  have  done  that  angel 
any  further  harm,  ay,  even  so  much  as  injured  her  little 
finger,  by  God,  I  will  kill  you  as  I  would  a  mad  dog." 

The  deadly  earnestness  in  his  voice  struck  a  grim  note. 
This  was  deepened  by  the  darkness  and  loneliness  of  the 
scene.  There  ensued  a  pause  in  which  the  silence  was 
deep.  Then  the  voice  of  Stephanos,  so  strangled  as  to 
be  scarce  recognisable,  gasped : — 

"Barlaam!  She — Zetitzka,  in  Barlaam!  Holy  Vir- 
gin! 'tis  not  possible.  No."  Then,  with  ungovernable 
violence,  and  seizing  the  pedlar  by  the  shoulder: — "  Old 
man,  you  are  deceiving  me!  You  say  this  to  tempt  me. 
Are  you  the  devil!  She  did  not  come  to  Barlaam.  She 


276  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

dare  not.  She  dare  not!  You  made  up  this  lie.  Con- 
fess. I  adjure  you  by  the  love  of  the  Crucified,  for  the 
sake  of  your  immortal  soul. ' ' 

All  self-restraint  had  gone.  Nik  Leka  could  not  see 
his  wild  haunted  eyes,  nor  the  sweat  beading  his  pale 
face,  but  he  heard  the  frenzied  insistence  in  his  voice,  and 
felt,  and  resented,  the  vice-like  grip  of  his  hand. 

Roughly  he  shook  himself  free. 

"  I  told  you  the  truth,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  She  did 
go  to  Barlaam.  'Twas  I  who  told  her  you  were  there. 
She  has  not  come  back.  I  tell  you  she  had  a  disguise ;  her 
mother  spoke  of  it  in  my  hearing.  She  carried  it  in  a 
bundle  under  her  arm.  I  warned  her  of  the  danger,  but 
she  would  not  take  advice.  Women  are  like  that."  He 
scratched  his  head,  then,  with  a  despairing  gesture — 
"  Sacred  Name!  this  is  brain-splitting!  Look  you,  she 
must  be  somewhere,  that  brave  girl.  But  where?  If  one 
only  knew  that  she  was  safe !  ' '  He  turned  to  the  black 
figure  beside  him.  "  Come;  think!  It  is  your  duty  to 
help  her,  yours  of  all  men.  Holy  Saints!  the  very  least 
you  can  do.  You  must  have  seen  her.  Did  no  one  arrive 
at  Barlaam  lately,  within  the  last  ten  days?  She  would 
pass  for  a  boy.  You  must  know!  Think!  Think!  " 

An  exclamation  of  enlightenment  broke  from  the  monk. 
So  fierce  and  full  of  horror  was  it  that  Nik  Leka  stared 
apprehensively.  On  the  quiet  night  there  poured  forth 
a  stream  of  curses,  wild  ejaculations,  hysterical  threats — 
incoherent,  unrestrained,  the  ravings  of  insanity. 

Nik  Leka's  first  impulse  was  one  of  self-defence.  In- 
stinctively his  hand  sought  the  hilt  of  his  yataghan.  But 
his  alarm  was  causeless,  for  the  monk  had  forgotten  him. 

Foreseeing  vaguely  the  danger  to  the  community  if  this 
madman  were  allowed  to  go  free,  and  forgetful  of  his  own 
age  and  the  pack  upon  his  back,  he  attempted  to  seize 
him.  But  Stephanos  tore  himself  from  his  grasp  and  in 
silence,  rendered  the  more  impressive  by  his  outburst,  fled 
into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

ALONG  the  benighted  road  Stephanos  rushed  wildly,  like 
the  madman  he  had  become.  But  one  thought  possessed 
him — to  reach  Barlaam  and  denounce  the  sacrilege  to  the 
brethren.  Horror,  fear,  and  indignation  lent  wings  to  his 
feet  and  a  spurious  strength  to  his  wasted  body.  Under 
their  influence  his  impaired  vitality  blazed  into  fresh  life; 
like  a  fire  that  leaps  into  flame  before  it  expires. 

On,  on,  through  the  darkness,  his  long  cassock  imped- 
ing his  movements,  loose  stones  spinning  from  beneath  his 
feet.  The  starless  night  blinded  him,  but  the  fierce  flame 
within,  fanned  by  the  memory  of  the  pedlar's  words, 
hounded  him  on. 

At  length  the  inevitable  took  place.  Missing  the  track 
at  a  point  where  the  presence  of  a  great  rock  cast  it  into 
still  deeper  shadow,  the  monk  plunged  headlong  among 
a  chaos  of  stones,  recovered  himself,  staggered,  and  finally 
fell  heavily  to  the  ground. 

For  long  he  lay  without  movement,  partially  stunned. 
Blood  welled  from  a  cut  in  his  head  and  fell  drop  by  drop 
upon  the  ground.  His  breath  came  in  gasping  sobs,  and 
his  overdriven  heart  bumped  and  checked. 

At  length  consciousness  returned.  With  an  effort  he 
sat  up.  The  darkness  was  impenetrable.  No  -vestige  of 
the  path  was  to  be  seen;  and  in  his  fall  he  had  lost  all 
sense  of  direction.  Giddiness  and  nausea  seized  him;  but 
passed,  as  he  pressed  his  brow  against  the  cool  surface  of 
a  rock.  It  behoved  him  to  be  careful — to  nurse  his 
strength.  It  was  not  his,  but  God's,  lent  to  him  for  a 
purpose.  He  must  make  haste.  Barlaam  was  far  away. 
It  would  take  all  night  to  reach  it.  The  pedlar's  words, 
the  discovery  he  had  made,  and  his  first  impressions,  all 
rushed  on  him.  He  sought  to  rise,  but  barely  had  he 
regained  his  feet  than  his  dizziness  returned.  Flinging 
out  his  arms,  he  again  staggered  and  fell. 

277 


278  'FOBBIDDEN  GKOUND 

Fasts,  vigils,  and  violent  passions  had  sapped  at  his 
strength;  and  now  in  the  hour  of  need  the  ill-used  body 
rose  in  rebellion  against  the  will  that  had  hitherto  held  it 
in  subjection.  His  impotence  filled  him  with  terror. 
Still  he  would  not  give  in.  Struggling  to  his  knees,  he 
sought  strength  by  prayer.  But  the  mystic  fire  that  had 
burned  in  his  heart,  sustaining  and  strengthening  him  in 
dark  moments  of  depression,  had  cooled.  The  words  were 
naught  without  the  spirit.  A  heavy  sense  of  regret  swept 
over  him.  "With  all  his  might  he  sought  to  re-kindle  the 
dying  flame.  The  fear  of  failure  added  to  his  torture. 
Colder  and  still  colder  grew  his  soul,  and  for  all  things 
spiritual  he  felt  only  indifference,  as  of  a  sluggish  heart 
and  a  weakened  will. 

Dejection  seized  him.  Would  God  never  return — never 
speak  with  him  again  ?  Was  this  fatal  insensibility  a  pre- 
lude to  fresh  temptation — a  sign  that  he  was  to  be  de- 
livered body  and  soul  to  the  evil  one?  By  a  spasmodic 
mental  effort  he  succeeded  in  silencing  the  wild  voices  of 
his  imagination,  in  concentrating  all  his  strength  upon  the 
determination  not  to  lose  courage.  But  the  exertion  left 
him  trembling  and  unnerved. 

Bodily  weakness  attacked  him — utter  exhaustion  and  a 
feeling  as  though  his  eyes  were  two  profound  cavities  pen- 
etrating to  the  centre  of  his  skull.  Added  to  this  came 
a  mortal  lassitude.  Oh,  to  sleep  for  ever — to  forget  all  in 
a  blissful  state  of  utter  unconsciousness !  Closing  his  heavy 
eyelids,  he  began  to  drift  upon  a  sensuous  sea. 

All  at  once  a  thin  note  of  an  owl  screeched  overhead. 
Stephanos  started  violently.  With  wild  affrighted  eyes 
like  a  hunted  thing,  he  peered  around  and  above,  trying 
vainly  to  penetrate  the  darkness.  A  shudder  passed  over 
him.  This  was  the  voice  of  the  devil.  He  felt  as  certain 
that  the  ghostly  visitant  was  the  Prince  of  Darkness  as 
though  he  quailed  before  his  fiery  eyes,  or  scorched  under 
his  poisonous  breath.  In  an  agony  of  fear,  he  fell  to 
praying  aloud,  calling  upon  God  to  rescue  him,  to  come 
to  his  servant  out  of  the  waste  places  of  the  night.  The 
sharp  stones  cut  into  his  knees,  but  he  was  unconscious 
of  pain. 

' '  God !  God !  God !  ' '  he  cried  aloud,  with  passionate  in- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  279 

sistence.  But  the  cry  lost  itself  in  blackness,  wailing 
grievously  among  the  desolate  hills. 

Then  came  despair.  He  was  abandoned,  doomed  to  ever- 
lasting perdition !  With  a  groan  he  fell  to  the  ground,  his 
arms  outstretched.  As  he  did  so,  the  money-bag  at  his 
girdle,  striking  against  a  stone,  clinked  dully. 

How  long  he  lay  there  he  knew  not.  It  might  have 
been  minutes,  or  hours.  Time  ceased  to  have  importance 
for  him.  Drowsiness  had  gone.  His  brain  was  now  ab- 
normally active.  His  emancipated  thoughts  clung  to 
Zetitzka.  At  first  he  tried  to  banish  her  from  his  mind, 
but  she  returned  as  persistently  as  though  his  brain 
possessed  but  one  cell,  and  his  memory  but  one  groove, 
and  she  claimed  both.  It  was  a  strange  form  of  retribu- 
tion. He  could  no  more  escape  than  a  man  bound  with 
chains  can  rise  and  walk.  She  was  within  him.  No  dark- 
ness could  hide  him,  no  distance  separate. 

Again  he  shrank  reluctantly  from  her  appealing  eyes, 
again  he  quailed  and  thrilled  alternately  at  the  sound  of 
her  voice,  again  he  shuddered  with  mingled  fear  and 
ecstasy  at  the  touch  of  her  hand.  Step  by  step,  hounded 
forward  by  the  lash  of  memory,  he  was  forced  to  re-enact 
every  emotion,  to  re-visit  every  scene  connected  with  her 
presence.  The  first  meeting,  the  night  of  the  storm  in  his 
house,  the  assignations  in  the  mountains,  the  parting  be- 
fore he  fled  to  the  monastery — all  came  back  vivid  as  a 
landscape  suddenly  illuminated  by  lightning.  At  every 
separate  memory  he  groaned  aloud. 

Then,  with  a  swift  and  terrible  shock,  he  remembered 
that  she  was  now  in  Barlaam.  He  longed  to  disbelieve  it, 
but  the  explanation  of  the  pedlar,  convincing  him  in  spite 
of  himself,  left  no  room  for  disbelief.  It  was,  moreover, 
corroborated  by  his  own  recollections : — the  new  lay  brother ; 
the  chance  encounter  in  the  subterranean  passage;  her 
faltering  speech,  till  now  forgotten,  but  which  returned 
clearly,  word  by  word,  as  though  it  were  a  photographic 
negative  slowly  creeping  into  life  under  the  action  of  a 
developer. 

And  with  hideous  inconsistency,  in  the  midst  of  his 
horror  and  fear,  he  found  himself  dwelling  with  guilty  and 
sensuous  pleasure  upon  her  bodily  attractions,  the  many 


280  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

charms  that  had  power,  even  in  absence,  to  stir  his  imagi- 
nation and  accelerate  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

Suddenly  he  felt  something  touch  his  head.  Again  and 
again  it  came,  infinitely  soft  and  caressing,  not  on  his 
head  only,  but  on  his  hands,  and  on  his  bare  neck.  With 
a  long  sigh  he  shuddered  upwards  from  the  nightmare  of 
his  dreams  to  the  blackness  of  reality.  He  touched  his 
face  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  It  was  wet.  Rain  had 
come.  Steadily,  persistently  it  fell  from  the  low  drift- 
ing clouds,  saturating  him,  trickling  over  his  burning  skin, 
forming  tiny  rivulets  in  every  fold  of  his  cassock.  He  lay 
still  and  allowed  himself  to  be  soaked.  As  the  water 
penetrated  to  his  body,  he  shivered  slightly.  It  allayed 
the  fever  that  consumed  him;  it  acted  on  his  brain,  sooth- 
ing it,  and  winning  it  to  a  calmer  mood.  His  trembling 
ceased,  and,  little  by  little,  sinful  thoughts  lost  them- 
selves in  the  unconscious  depths  of  his  soul.  With  his 
wounded  head  pillowed  on  his  arm  and  his  eyes  closed, 
he  gave  himself  up  to  this  gentle  presence  that  fell  from 
heaven  like  a  benediction.  He  could  hear  its  murmur  like 
a  long  sigh  of  relief  as  it  fell  and  fell  in  the  darkness,  on 
rock  and  stone,  on  parched  plain  and  thirsty  hill. 

All  at  once  he  became  conscious  of  a  new  sound,  faint 
at  first,  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  the  soft  monotony 
.of  the  rain,  but,  as  the  moments  passed,  growing  louder  and 
louder  until  it  acquired  significance.  It  came  from  be- 
side him ;  the  small  silvery  voice  of  running  water,  strangely 
persistent,  reiterating  something  in  the  night. 

Accustomed  to  associate  all  natural  phenomena  with  his 
disordered  fancies,  Stephanos  was  suddenly  seized  with 
the  conviction  that  this  was  the  Voice  of  God.  An  im- 
mense awe  took  possession  of  him ;  on  his  knees,  by  the  side 
of  the  unseen  rivulet,  he  abased  himself,  beseeching  guid- 
ance in  this  hour  of  darkness. 

Unwearyingly  the  small  voice  spoke  to  him.  With 
every  faculty  alert,  every  nerve  strung,  Stephanos  sought 
to  decipher  the  message. 

Vaguely  at  first,  but  more  and  more  clearly  as  the  sound 
gained  in  volume,  a  word  suggested  itself  to  his  distracted 
brain — a  word  that  repeated  itself  persistently,  as  though 
the  invisible  were  seeking  to  impress  its  wishes  upon  the 
listener. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  281 

Was  it  Zetitzka?  Who  else?  God  knew  how  she  had 
imperilled  one  soul  by  her  fascinations.  He  knew  also 
that  she  was  seeking  to  imperil  others.  What  more  just 
than  that  His  wrath  should  be  kindled? 

The  memory  of  her  winsome  face  flashed  across  him, 
only  to  be  driven  sternly  from  his  mind.  Her  youth  and 
beauty  were  the  devil's  wiles.  They  should  avail  her 
naught.  A  new-born  sense  of  importance  came  to  him, 
and  in  the  darkness  his  haggard  face  shone  with  a  wild 
light.  With  the  knowledge  of  Zetitzka 's  presence  in  the 
monastery,  this  man  had  passed  from  a  tormented  but 
controlled  fanatic  to  a  creature  of  ungovernable  instincts. 
His  every  action,  nay,  his  every  thought,  had  become 
exaggerated  beyond  all  sane  possibilities,  crudely  melo- 
dramatic. With  the  strange  hallucination  of  the  insane, 
he  told  himself  that  he,  Stephanos,  was  God's  right  hand, 
His  scourge  to  drive  this  woman  from  Barlaam.  An  over- 
weening pride  swelled  his  heart,  stifling  all  pity,  over- 
coming all  fear.  Suddenly,  in  the  blackness  and  silence 
of  night,  the  hills  heard  an  almost  inhuman  sound — a 
shrill,  crazy  voice  uplifted  in  thanksgiving — thanksgiving 
horrible  as  a  blasphemy. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

ZETITZKA  was  waiting  for  Petros  in  the  cloisters. 

The  night  was  dark.  A  light  wind  moaned  fitfully, 
causing  the  semantron  to  clank  at  irregular  intervals 
against  one  of  the  pillars.  Save  for  this  dismal  sound 
and  the  sighing  of  the  wind,  the  monastery  was  plunged 
in  its  customary  silence. 

Before  Zetitzka  had  been  there  many  minutes,  steps 
resounded  on  the  flagstones  and  Petros  stood  beside  her. 

A  thrill  of  joy  passed  over  the  girl.  The  darkness, 
desolate  and  full  of  fear,  became  beautiful,  protective. 
Instinctively,  to  assure  herself  of  the  tangibility  of  her  hap- 
piness, she  stretched  out  her  hands,  touched  the  coarse 
stuff  of  his  cassock  with  light  furtively-caressing  fingers; 
then,  confused  and  trembling,  allowed  her  arms  to  fall. 

"  I  have  somewhat  to  tell  you,  Zetitzka,"  he  said. 

His  voice  sounded  forced  and  unnatural.  Its  tone 
alarmed  her. 

"  What  is  it?  "  stie  asked  quickly. 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the  harsh  clanking 
of  the  semantron.  Then  he  proposed  that  they  should  go 
into  the  Catholicon. 

Within  the  building  the  gloom  was  combated  by  the 
solitary  lighted  candle  that  burned  continually  before  the 
icon  of  the  Virgin.  This  light,  though  dim,  contrasted 
forcibly  with  the  groping  darkness  without.  It  enabled 
her  to  see  him.  His  appearance  increased  her  apprehen- 
sion. With  anxiety,  which  she  never  thought  of  conceal- 
ing, she  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

He  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  her.  It  was  as  if 
he  feared  to  be  near.  For  a  moment  he  gazed  at  the 
deep  shadows  massed  behind  the  Holy  Doors,  then,  draw- 
ing a  long  breath :  ' '  Zetitzka  you  must  go  away  from 
here." 

282 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  283 

She  stared  at  him,  far  as  yet  from  the  truth,  only  be- 
wildered, troubled. 

He  continued.  "  It  is  not  safe  for  you  to  remain.  At 
any  moment  something  fearsome  might  come  to  pass. 
Verily,  I  should  have  thought  of  it  before.  You  must  go 
to-morrow  night." 

Her  eyes  had  contracted.  She  did  not  recognise  in  this 
young  monk  who  spoke  to  her  with  such  self-control  the 
boy  who,  but  a  few  nights  ago,  had  stammered  out  his 
love.  His  very  expression  had  altered.  With  a  sudden 
sinking  of  the  heart  Zetitzka  noticed  the  set  mouth.  This 
sign,  which  only  betrayed  the  effort  of  his  will,  seemed 
to  her  the  expression  of  an  averted  heart.  The  anguish 
of  the  thought  took  away  all  power  of  thinking. 

Instinctively  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  bosom. 

"  You  want  me  to  go?  "  she  asked,  trying  to  control  her 
voice. 

"  Yes./' 

She  did  not  see  what  the  word  cost  him  to  utter.  It 
was  enough  for  her  to  know  that  he  was  capable  of  pro- 
nouncing an  affirmative,  of  dealing  her  a  mortal  blow  that 
killed  all  dreams,  all  joy,  all  hope. 

Her  soul  had  been  on  tiptoe  to  greet  him.  Borne  away 
on  the  tide  of  love,  Zetitzka  had  almost  lost  sight  of  the 
dark  and  inevitable  future.  Her  every  thought  had  been 
consecrated  to  Petros.  How  -to  give  him  pleasure.  For 
his  sake  and  his  alone  she  had  more  than  once  exercised 
a  self-repression  that  had  in  it  much  of  the  torment  and 
the  sweetness  of  martyrdom.  Love  was  in  her:  as  natural 
to  her  as  colour  to  flowers.  Love  tingled  in  every  vein, 
shone  from  her  eyes,  accelerated  the  beating  of  her  heart. 
With  the  impetuosity  of  a  torrent,  long  dammed  up  but 
now  set  free,  her  heart  rushed  towards  Petros ;  or,  rather 
it  fluttered  with  tremulous  wings ;  for  deep  and  passionate 
though  her  feelings  were,  she  would  have  died  rather  than 
acknowledge  them.  Only  under  the  influence  of  a  passion, 
impetuous  and  ardent  as  her  own,  would  she  have  confessed 
to  their  existence. 

Even  while  waiting  for  him  in  the  darkness  of  the 
cloisters,  she  had  been  rehearsing  her  part,  schooling  her- 
self to  resist,  trembling,  yearning,  fighting.  And  all  the 
while,  deep  down  in  her  heart,  she  had  been  conscious  of 


284  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

a  delicious  weakness  that  whispered  to  her  that  at  last  she 
had  found  her  master,  that  she  was  his  to  do  with  as  he 
liked.  Ay,  but  his  to  keep  and  cherish,  not  his  to  send 
away. 

Suddenly  she  started,  to  find  that  Petros  was  speaking 
again. 

"  All  is  already  arranged,"  he  said.  "  It  were  better 
you  left  this  under  cover  of  night.  Dimitri  says " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  quick  gasp. 

"  Dimitril    I  see  now!  " 

He  gazed  at  her,  speechless.  She  looked  dim  as  a 
ghost  in  the  flickering  golden  light;  but  the  indignation 
in  her  eyes  was  a  thing  alive — it  pierced  him  like  a  knife. 

"  He  arranged  this?  "  she  demanded  fiercely. 

At  his  answer  she  gave  vent  to  a  short  angry  laugh. 
"  I  knew  it.  You  are  changed.  And  in  one  little  hour. 
You  had  no  thought  of  this  when  we  parted  before  sun- 
set. Oh  it  is  monstrous!  Base!  Do  you  call  this  love 
that  changes  in  an  hour  ?  Dimitri !  To  let  him  interfere ! 
What  right  has  he  ?  He  is  no  monk. ' ' 

Taken  aback,  Petros  stammered  he  scarce  knew  what. 

"  Friend!  "  She  repeated  his  last  word  angrily.  "  I 
need  no  friend  but  you.  I  want  no  one  but  you.  Do  you 
hear?  I  want  you!  '' 

He  winced  at  the  cry.  Her  eyes,  devouring  his  face, 
saw  pain.  Hope,  that  had  died  so  hard,  struggled  into 
new  life. 

"Petros!  You  do  care.  I  see  it  in  your  face.  God 
bless  you  for  that,  dear.  But  you  have  been  misled.  You 
are  young,  unsuspecting;  you  know  not  how  wicked  men 
are,  and  he  must  be  a  bad  man  to  advise  this.  I  blame 
him,  not  you.  He  deceived  me  too — with  that  friendly 
air  of  his.  I  trusted  him.  But  don't  listen  to  him.  It 
would  kill  me — kill  me.  I  couldn't  live  without  you." 

He  found  no  words  to  answer.  Deceived  by  his  silence, 
Zetitzka  continued  eagerly : 

"  Let  me  stay  with  you.  I  will  be  very  careful.  Or, 
if  it  is  too  dangerous  here,  come  away  with  me.  We  love 
each  other;  no  one  must  separate  us." 

"  Hearken,  Zetitzka,"  he  cried  huskily.  "  Verily,  you 
do  Dimitri  wrong.  He  does  not  want  to  part  us.  He  is 
a  noble  heart.  He  offered  to  help  us  if — if  so  be  that 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  285 

we  went  away  together.  Ah,  stop !  "  He  raised  his  hand, 
for  the  gladness  that  sprang  to  her  face  cut  him  like  a 
lash.  "  It  can  never  be.  I  am  a  monk.  Holy  saints, 
if  only  I  had  to  suffer!  But  you — I  have  brought  misery 
upon  you — I,  who  would  die,  and  joyfully,  to  save  you 
even  a  little  pain.  I  can  never  forgive  myself.  My  God ! 
Zetitzka,  do  not  look  at  me  like  that!  " 

The  hard  incredulity  in  her  eyes  caused  his  voice  to 
rise  suddenly  in  a  swift  uncontrollable  note  of  pain.  But 
her  expression  did  not  change. 

In  a  flash  all  her  noble  resolutions,  all  her  dreams  of 
self-sacrifice  and  abnegation  vanished,  whirled  away  like 
withered  leaves  before  a  winter  storm. 

Aboriginal  instincts  had  her  in  their  grip.  Her  Albanian 
blood,  swift  to  love  and  swift  to  kill,  surged  to  her  poor 
aching  heart.  The  fierce,  primitive,  and  racial  passions 
inherited  from  lawless  ancestors  smouldered  in  her  eyes. 

The  boy  was  goaded  past  all  endurance.  "  You  do — 
nay,  you  must  believe  me !  "  he  cried. 

She  shook  her  head.  The  negation  was  prompted  rather 
by  a  desire  to  make  him  suffer,  even  as  she  was  suffering, 
than  by  unbelief.  "  No,"  she  said  sullenly,  "  I  do  not 
believe  you.  If  you  cared  for  me  you  would  never  drive 
me  away.  Oh,  you  are  cruel!  You,  too,  think  of  your 
soul.  Men  do  not  care  what  a  woman  suffers.  I  might 
have  known.  I  have  suffered  enough.  But  I  was  mad! 
Blind !  I  thought — I  thought — I  thought  I  was  so  happy ! 

No,  stand  back "  for  as  her  voice  broke  piteously  he 

had  stretched  out  his  hands.  "  I  do  not  want  your  pity. 
I  want  your  love.  I  have  given  you  mine — all.  I  would 
let  you  trample  me  under  foot.  I  would  follow  you 
through  the  world.  I  would  work  for  you  till  my  fingers 
were  bone.  And  be  proud  to  do  it.  But  you — Holy 
Virgin!  you  cast  me  off — at  a  word  from  another!  Ay, 
'tis  true ;  you  and  that  man  Dimitri,  you  arrange  my  future 
between  you.  I  am  not  asked.  It  does  not  matter  what 
I  feel.  I  am  only  a  woman.  But  I  will  not  go!  I  am 
no  child,  to  be  told  to  stay  or  go.  Ah,  it  is  all  this  hateful 
monastery !  It  is  cruel.  I  hate  it — hate  it — hate  it !  " 

All  the  Southern  violence  that  love  had  taught  her  to 
repress  exploded  in  her  voice,  blazed  in  her  eyes.  She 
went  and  came  in  the  narrow  space  between  the  stalls 


286  FOKBIDDEN  GROUND 

and    the    Holy   Doors,    breathless,    gesticulating,    furious, 
desperate. 

"  Is  this  religion?  "  she  cried  with  fierce  scorn.  "  Is 
this  what  it  is  to  be  a  monk — to  break  hearts,  to  ruin 
lives?  Then  give  me  a  yataghan.  It  is  more  merciful: 
it  kills  at  once!  " 

Petros  watched  her  coming  and  going — watched  her, 
sick  with  pain. 

Suddenly  her  mood  altered.  She  stopped  abruptly. 
Her  hands,  now  unclenched,  were  again  pressed  con- 
vulsively to  her  bosom,  as  though  by  the  might  of  her 
ten  straining  fingers  she  could  force  down  the  anguish 
that  was  choking  her.  In  the  dim  light  Petros  noted 
with  renewed  misery  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She 
leant  towards  him  as  he  stood  riveted  to  the  spot. 

11  Petros,"  she  faltered,  "  what  have  I  said?  In  my 
head  everything  is  confused.  I — I  forgot  myself.  You 
must  forgive  me.  I  know  you  love  me.  You  would  not 
break  my  heart — would  you,  dear  ?  You  are  my  own  true 
lover,  the  sweetest  lover  ever  woman  had.  You  will  come 
with  me  ? — promise  it.  For  the  sake  of  our  love,  Petros !  ' ' 

Where  was  the  Fury  of  a  minute  ago  ?  Gone !  And  in 
her  place  was  this  poor  woman,  this  piteous  child,  her 
lips  trembling,  hot  tears  coursing  down  her  cheeks. 

The  boy  instinctively  crossed  himself.  All  vestige  of 
colour  fled  from  his  face.  All  his  soul,  all  his  body  went 
out  to  her  in  an  immense  wave  of  compassion  and 
sympathy  and  suffering  mutely  shared. 

In  the  solemn  hush  of  the  sanctuary  her  voice  continued, 
earnest  and  eager,  passionate  and  imploring  by  turns.  In 
broken  words  that  were  as  a  cry  from  her  breaking  heart, 
she  reasoned  with  him,  struggling  to  master  her  distress, 
to  fight  down  her  tears,  to  tell  him  of  all  that  he  would 
lose,  to  paint  to  him  all  that  he  might  gain. 

And  he  listened  to  her  as  one  in  a  trance,  unable  to 
move,  seduced  by  the  sweetness  and  the  pathos  of  that 
beloved  voice  that  revealed  to  him  a  happiness  beyond  all 
imagining.  To  live  with  her  always,  always — to  make  a 
home  for  her — to  guard  and  console  her — to  love  her 
without  restraint — to  be  the  father  of  her  children.  A 
terrible  longing  rushed  over  him.  It  communicated  itself 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  287 

to  every  inch  of  his  body.  Each  separate  throb  of  his 
heart  was  like  a  cry  from  the  night  of  his  loneliness,  re- 
iterating her  name. 

Under  these  overpowering  influences,  his  past,  his  life's 
training,  his  vows,  all  swung  back,  became  faint  and  for- 
gotten as  dreams  at  daybreak:  nothing  in  the  whole  uni- 
verse was  real  but  Zetitzka,  but  this  dear  familiar  voice 
that  was  as  sweetest  music  to  his  ears,  leading  him  from 
darkness  into  light. 

But  as  he  listened  and  thrilled,  moved  to  profound 
depths,  his  heart  melted  with  love  and  longing,  another 
voice  called  to  him.  Like  a  sleep-walker  who  awakens 
aghast  upon  a  precipice  brink,  Petros  awoke  suddenly. 
In  a  flash  he  saw  reality,  and  recoiled.  He  was  a  monk. 
For  him  there  could  be  no  such  love  as  he  had  pictured. 
He  would  love  her  always — that  was  beyond  recall — but 
his  place  was  here — here  till  death. 

The  revulsion  of  feeling  was  violent.  He  felt  like  one 
in  whose  face  the  gates  of  all  earthly  joy  are  closed  for 
ever.  A  subdued  and  profound  spiritual  responsibility 
mingled  with  the  anguish  that  never  for  one  moment 
ceased  to  prey  upon  his  mind.  Swiftly  before  his  mental 
vision  there  passed  memories  of  the  solemn  rite  of  initia- 
tion: the  Abbot's  voice  raised  in  exhortation,  the  chanting 
of  the  brethren,  the  immense  insurgence  of  spiritual  awe 
and  ardour  that— as  he  had  stood  before  them  clad  for  the 
first  time  in  the  "  Lesser  habit  "  of  a  monk — had  swelled 
his  heart  and  imparted  to  every  detail  of  the  solemn  service 
a  holy  and  mysterious  significance. 

His  material  surroundings,  which  had  receded  to  an 
immeasurable  distance,  drew  near,  claiming  him.  The 
shadowy  corona  with  its  pendant  ostrich  eggs ;  the  sombre 
stalls  vanishing  into  impenetrable  gloom;  the  inner 
sanctuary  behind  the  Holy  Doors,  now  shrouded  in  dark- 
ness— all  loomed  black  and  imminent,  frowning  upon  him 
in  mute  but  eloquent  reproach.  Only  the  face  of  the 
Virgin,  turned  towards  him,  shone  with  a  promise  of  inter- 
cession that  was  humanly  tender,  yet  divine. 

Zetitzka,  watching,  saw  his  face  change.  Its  expression 
filled  her  with  dread.  She  recognised  that  she  had  ceased 
to  be  all  in  all  to  him — that  some  influence  stronger  than 


288  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

hers  was  at  work.  A  dull  and  burning  jealousy  seized  her 
— yet,  conscious  that  all  effort  was  now  unavailing,  she 
kept  silence. 

Then,  in  the  dim  light,  surrounded  by  the  mysterious 
symbols  of  the  creed  that  separated  them,  he  spoke  to 
her — spoke  with  averted  eyes  that  he  might  not  add  to 
her  pain. 

But  Zetitzka  paid  heed  neither  to  his  anguish  nor  to 
his  disjointed  speech.  His  tone  was  enough  for  her.  In 
it  there  was  a  note  of  finality  that  was  as  a  hand  of  ice 
laid  upon  her  heart. 

The  inner  light  that  lent  him  strength  to  do  his  duty 
was  invisible  to  her.  Later  it  was  to  dawn  upon  her  that 
for  him  there  was  something  higher  than  human  love,  and 
the  knowledge  was  to  bring  consolation  and  even  thank- 
fulness. But  for  the  moment  all  was  dark. 

Her  poor  distracted  heart,  racked  with  suffering,  the 
sport  of  primitive  passions,  took  note  of  but  one  thing — 
she  had  lost  him  for  ever. 

The  blackness  of  the  monastery  settled  down  upon  her 
like  a  pall.  The  silence,  when  Petros  had  ceased  to  speak, 
ate  into  her  bones.  Her  attitude  was  one  of  utter  and 
hopeless  abandonment — the  helpless  acquiescence  of  one 
who  is  crushed.  Slowly  her  head  drooped  until  her  fore- 
head came  in  contact  with  the  hard  carven  surface  of 
the  stalls  against  which  she  leaned.  Then  motionless  as 
one  of  the  sculptured  saints  overhead,  with  hands  limp 
and  open,  with  eyelids  closed  and  streaming,  she  gave  her- 
self up  to  despair. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

IN  the  windy  dawn  Petros,  crossing  the  court,  came 
unexpectedly  upon  Dimitri.  The  muleteer  was  sheltering 
under  the  branches  of  the  fig-tree. 

"  I  could  not  keep  away,"  he  muttered  awkwardly,  sup- 
pressing further  explanations  as  he  saw  that  Petros  ex- 
pected none. 

Dimitri  looked  round  the  court  and  at  the  monastic 
buildings  slowly  detaching  themselves  from  the  obscurity. 
Above  him,  the  heavy  foliage  bent  to  the  blasts.  Bar- 
laam,  seen  in  this  chill  and  blustering  dawn,  had  an  in- 
describable air  of  gloom. 

"  Where  is  she?  "  he  asked 

"In  her  cell." 

"  You  have  told  her?    All  is  arranged? '" 

"  Yes." 

The  muleteer  looked  furtively  at  his  companion.  It  was 
plain  that  he  longed,  yet  feared,  to  question.  Curiosity, 
however,  got  the  better  of  him. 

"  How  did  she  take  it?  "  he  asked  awkwardly. 

Save  with  a  vague  gesture  of  his  hands,  Petros  did  not 
reply.  His  surroundings  were  less  real  to  him  than  the 
recollection  of  Zetitzka,  deadly  pale,  standing  out  among 
wavering  shadows.  Unconsciously  he  resented  Dimitri 's 
presence.  He  wanted  to  be  alone. 

"  We  must  make  it  easy  for  her,"  said  the  muleteer, 
gruffly.  "  We  are  men,  you  and  I." 

The  look  that  Petros  turned  on  him  puzzled  and  even 
struck  him  with  amazement,  for  there  was  a  solemnity 
and  an  insighi,  in  the  grave  eyes  of  the  boy  that  made 
him  feel  that  he  had  spoken  unnecessarily. 

"  I  can  do  little,"  he  blundered  on;  "  but  you,  you  can 
do  much.     See  that  all  is  ready  before  dusk,  her  belong- 
ings and  the  key  to  the  ladders.    No  one  must  see — 
But  there,  you  know  all  about  that.    As  for  me,  I  must 
19  289 


290  FORBIDDEN  GEOUND 

pass  this  day  somehow.  My  faith !  I  am  glad  I  have  my 
business.  I  go  to  Meteoron  and  Kastrati.  But  at  night- 
fall, you  understand?  Bah!  I  talk  too  much.  Holy 
saints !  what  a  dog 's  day !  ' ' 

As  he  spoke,  the  high  harsh  wind  swept  over  the  monas- 
tery. On  its  wings  came  clouds  of  fine  dust  whirled  up- 
wards from  the  ravines.  It  tore  at  the  kilt  of  the  man, 
the  cassock  of  the  boy,  buffeting  them  with  irresponsible 
violence,  causing  them  to  clutch  at  their  headgear;  then 
screamed  out  and  away  across  the  ranges  to  where  lay 
the  sunless  world. 

' '  This  wind,  look  you, ' '  grumbled  the  muleteer, ' '  'tis  the 
very  devil,  the  black  wind,  the  worst  we  have  had  for 
years.  I  met  the  village  priest  on  the  path  near  Hagios 
Triada.  He  prayed  aloud  as  he  walked.  He  said  that 

with  this  wind  comes  calamity.  One  never  knows " 

He  crossed  himself.  "  As  a  precaution,  eh?  " 

But  Petros  was  not  listening.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  shadowy  dormitories.  Dimitri  noticed  and  shook  his 
head.  With  a  curt  farewell,  he  swung  off  towards  the 
outer  court.  As  he  went,  he  muttered :  ' '  Could  you  not 
leave  them  to  themselves  for  one  day,  and  that  the  last? 
Beast!  " 

Even  upon  the  swaying  ladders  he  continued  to  abuse 
himself,  taking  pleasure  in  doing  battle  with  the  gale. 

An  hour  later,  several  of  the  brethren  were  at  break- 
fast. 

"  I  have  no  appetite,"  wailed  Gerasimos,  then  cried  out 
lamentably  against  the  wind  that  made  his  head  go  round. 
His  companions  likewise  complained  of  bodies  glowing 
with  dry  heat  and  skins  gritty  with  dust.  Nervous  ten- 
sion and  depression  weighed  upon  the  spirits;  even  the 
gentle  Philemon,  with  flushed  face  and  eyes  unnaturally 
bright,  waxed  quarrelsome.  Superstitious  fears  added  to 
their  physical  distress.  Muttering  low,  as  though  the  wind 
that  howled  without  were  capable  of  taking  sudden 
vengeance,  Nicodemus  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  the 
souls  of  the  damned  were  abroad,  and  that  it  behoved 
all  good  monks  to  watch  and  pray.  The  others  listened 
to  him  with  open  mouths,  wagging  their  white  beards  and 
from  time  to  time  casting  apprehensive  glances  towards  the 
door. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  291 

The  nervous  tension  deepened  as  the  day  dragged  to- 
wards its  close.  The  change  after  weeks  of  clarity  and 
sunlight,  was  remarkable.  A  crape  veil  seemed  to  be 
drawn  over  the  face  of  nature,  through  which  the  lurid 
light  penetrated  feebly.  The  outer  world,  stretching  itself 
away  in  dim  perspective,  showed  leaden  and  featureless; 
while,  near  at  hand,  the  giant  buttresses  of  Meteora 
towered  grimly.  The  wind  came  from  the  north.  It 
turned  the  gullies  into  vent-holes,  and  stormed  about  the 
pinnacle  of  Barlaam  with  a  hollow  and  endless  plaint  that 
sunk  the  spirits  of  its  inmates  to  their  lowest  ebb.  Around 
the  monastery  it  swept,  less  in  gusts  than  in  a  steady 
besieging  uproar;  but  higher,  where  the  hills  piled  them- 
selves upon  the  northern  sky-line,  its  strength  was  more 
variable,  for  there  came  down  at  times  a  far-off  canorous 
wailing,  infinitely  grievous  to  hear,  and  the  eye  would 
mark  where  a  sudden  column  of  dust  whirled  up- 
wards and  dispersed  instantly  like  the  smoke  of  an  explo- 
sion. 

Nightfall  within  the  ravines  was  but  the  continuation  of 
a  darker  and  more  hopeless  day. 

A  little  after  the  sunset  hour — for  no  appearance  of 
sunset  had  been  visible — Stephanos  strode  rapidly  along 
the  path  that  led  to  the  base  of  Barlaam.  A  stranger, 
meeting  him,  would  have  noticed  nothing  remarkable,  save 
that  he  talked  to  himself,  for  the  enveloping  gloom  hid 
the  monk's  features  and  concealed  all  signs  of  discom- 
posure. 

But  the  material  darkness  found  its  counterpart  within 
his  heart.  His  unbalanced  brain,  so  long  on  the  verge, 
had  at  length  leaped  into  madness — a  form  of  madness 
rendered  doubly  dangerous  by  some  show  of  reason  and 
controlled  by  a  cunning  that  in  itself  was  an  additional 
cause  for  alarm. 

The  wind  made  walking  difficult.  It  sprang  on  this 
lonely  wayfarer  and  contested  every  foot  of  the  path. 
As  he  struggled  onwards  with  bent  head  and  clutching 
his  cassock,  he  stumbled  frequently,  and  once  he  fell;  but, 
recovering  himself,  he  again  matched  his  strength  against 
the  gale. 

His  mind  was  entirely  occupied  with  Zetitzka.  When 
the  wind  permitted,  he  rehearsed  aloud  what  he  would 


292  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

say  when  he  met  her  face  to  face.  The  effect  of  this 
voice  haranguing  the  darkness  was  uncanny  in  the  ex- 
treme. In  its  tones  were  to  be  heard  all  the  evil  passions 
that  hounded  him  on.  That  which  was  most  noticeable 
about  him  was  his  lack  of  humanity;  for  as  far  as  all 
pitiful  and  kindly  instincts  were  concerned,  he  had  ceased 
to  be  a  man.  He  had  become  merely  an  embodiment  of 
evil;  obsessed  with  one  idea;  a  purpose  and  a  peril.  His 
strength  had  redoubled.  He  burned  with  fever.  But  so 
intense  was  the  concentration  of  his  thoughts  that  he 
was  as  oblivious  of  weakness,  hunger,  and  want  of  sleep 
as  he  was  of  the  wind  or  the  stones  among  which  he 
stumbled. 

Arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  ladders,  he  began  the  ascent. 
The  clumsy  lengths  that  oscillated  to  his  movements  had 
now  no  fears  for  him.  He  was  unconscious  of  their  sway- 
ing motion  as  step  by  upward  step  he  climbed  the  face 
of  the  cliff;  and  if  the  blackness  and  the  danger  pene- 
trated to  his  mind,  it  was  only  to  thrill  it  with  a  sense  of 
exultation. 

Having  groped  his  way  through  the  trap-door,  he 
paused  irresolute.  The  darkness  that  hemmed  him  in  was 
broken  faintly  by  the  square  at  his  feet — a  space  that  told 
where  the  topmost  ladder  hung  and  the  precipice  fell 
sheer.  Through  this  opening  the  wind  forced  itself.  A 
fierce  spirit  seemed  to  animate  it,  for  unable  to  prevent  the 
monk's  entry  it  followed  him,  venting  its  rage  upon  the 
cra2y  hut,  every  beam  of  which  groaned  aloud. 

Stephanos  was  thinking  swiftly.  Facts  detached  them- 
selves from  the  chaos  in  his  mind;  so  clearly  did  they 
stand  out  that  he  was  able  to  marshal  them  into  a  semblance 
of  order.  Yet  madness  tinged  even  this  show  of  reason. 
A  pride  great  as  that  of  Lucifer  swelled  his  breast. 
The  monastery,  the  pinnacle,  all  his  surroundings,  be- 
came insignificant,  and  he  himself  a  giant.  This  lack 
of  proportion,  so  common  among  the  insane,  persuaded 
him  that  he  had  only  to  raise  a  hand  and  miracles  would 
take  place.  Was  he  not  the  agent  of  an  avenging  Deity? 
In  the  darkness  his  eyes  dilated  and  his  heart  grew  big 
with  a  sense  of  illimitable  power. 

Yet  lurking  beneath  this  inflated  insanity,  there  were 
a  doubt  and  a  fear.  Swamped  by  pride  and  the  rush  of 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  293 

wild  hallucinations,  they  were  existent,  nevertheless.  The 
doubt  was  of  himself — the  fear  of  Zetitzka. 

All  at  once  it  struck  him  as  unusual  that  the  topmost 
ladder  should  still  be  in  its  place.  While  recognising  this 
as  fortunate,  he  did  not  cease  to  wonder.  Was  it  not  the 
duty  of  Brother  Petros  to  draw  it  up  at  nightfall?  The 
lad  had  then  forgotten.  Why? 

As  he  pondered,  memory  came  to  his  assistance — a  com- 
ment of  one  of  the  brethren  uttered  in  his  hearing,  till 
now  forgotten.  The  names  of  Petros  and  Angelos  had 
been  linked  together.  Angelos?  That  meant  Zetitzka! 
Great  God!  He  clasped  his  hands  to  his  head,  for  the 
blood  had  rushed  to  his  brain.  Almost  swooning,  he  leant 
against  the  timber  wall. 

For  long  he  remained  without  movement.  Then,  lock- 
ing the  trap-door  and  concealing  the  key  beneath  his  cas- 
sock, he  groped  his  way  towards  the  courtyard. 


CHAPTER  XLYI 

As  he  crossed  the  inner  court,  Stephanos  came  unex- 
pectedly upon  the  Abbot.  The  old  man  staggered  as  the 
monk  stumbled  against  him. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  he  cried,  for  deafened  by  the  wind  and 
bewildered  by  the  darkness  he  had  heard  no  approaching 
footsteps.  ' '  Is  that  you,  Brother  Philemon  ?  ' ' 

"  It  is  I,  Stephanos." 

"  Holy  Saints!  "  The  Abbot  peered  through  his  spec- 
tacles at  the  tall  shadow  barely  distinguishable  in  the 
gloom.  "  You  amaze  me,  my  son.  I  knew  not  you  had 
returned.  But  right  glad  am  I  to  behold  you;  'tis  no 
night  for  aught  human  to  be  abroad.  Now,  get  you  to 
your  cell.  I  will  send  victuals  unto  you.  God  be  with 
you,  my  son." 

"  Venerable  father "  But,  ere  he  could  continue, 

a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder.  ' '  You  forget, ' '  cried  the 
Abbot's  voice  from  the  darkness.  "  You  are  under  a 
penalty  of  silence." 

Stephanos  stood  dumfounded.  The  fact  had  entirely 
slipped  his  memory.  Experience  told  him  that  the  penalty 
would  be  rigorously  enforced.  The  Abbot's  word  was  law. 
This  knowledge,  more  than  the  warning  hand,  held  him 
speechless. 

The  wind  buffeted  him  in  the  face  and  fled  screaming. 
To  his  mind  it  was  a  fiend  mocking  him. 

"  Hear  me!  "  he  cried  in  desperation,  clutching  as  he 
spoke  at  the  old  man 's  cassock.  ' '  You  must  hear  me ! 
God  sends  me.  There  is  deadly  sin  in  the  monastery." 

"  Silence!" 

Recovering  from  his  amazement,  the  Abbot  threw  into 
the  word  a  weight  of  outraged  authority.  His  tone 
dominated  Stephanos  as  the  human  eye  is  said  to  dominate 
a  wild  animal.  The  Abbot  continued : — 

"  What  wild  words  are  these?  The  black  wind  has  dis- 

294 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  295 

tempered  yon.  You  are  not  yourself  to-night.  Add  not 
disobedience  to  disobedience.  Do  as  I  command.  Go." 

Half  an  hour  later  Elias  and  Gerasimos  were  dallying 
over  their  evening  meal.  The  cheerless  interior  of  the 
refectory,  dimly  lighted  by  the  Moorish  lamp,  was  full  of 
wavering  lights  and  shadows.  Elias  was  worn  out,  for 
owing  to  the  weather,  the  long  services  had  been  peculiarly 
exhausting.  His  grey  head  leant  heavily  upon  his  hand: 
his  elbow  propped  itself  upon  a  table  still  covered  with 
the  remnants  of  supper.  Opposite  him  sat  Gerasimos 
listening  uneasily  to  the  wind,  while  endeavouring  to  ex- 
tract consolation  from  a  glass  of  mastica. 

All  at  once,  the  snap  of  broken  glass  caused  Elias  to 
open  drowsy  eyes.  His  companion — the  stem  of  the  shat- 
tered wineglass  still  between  his  fingers — was  staring  at 
the  window,  his  whole  person  eloquent  of  superstitious  ter- 
ror. 

.  "  Kyrie  Eleison!  "  cried  Elias;  but  in  answer  to  his 
questions  Gerasimos  could  do  naught  but  point  and  gape, 
while  the  spilt  mastica  trickled  to  the  floor. 

* '  A  face, ' '  he  whispered,  finding  breath ;  "  I  saw  it  there 
— plainly — as  I  see  you !  ' ' 

His  terror  was  infectious.  Elias  also  found  himself 
gaping  at  the  stone  slit  that  did  duty  for  a  window. 

"  What  like  was  it?  "  he  asked,  under  his  breath. 

"  Naught  human.     Its  eyes  reminded  me  of — of— 
He  raised  his  hands,  palms  outwards,  as  though  to  ward 
off  evil;  then,  in  a  whisper  and  bending  forward  across 
the  table  till  his  lips  all  but  touched  his  friend's  ears— 
"  You  have  seen  the  damned  on  the  wall  in  the  Pronaos." 

Elias  crossed  himself  hastily.  For  awhile  the  two  old 
men  remained  without  movement.  Outside  the  wind 
howled  lugubriously.  It  forced  itself  under  the  door, 
brandished  the  lights  of  the  smoky  lamp,  passed  shudder- 
ingly  between  the  two  monks  as  they  sat  at  table. 

"*I  shall  stay  here  all  night,"  muttered  Gerasimos, 
edging  closer. 

Elias  echoed  the  resolve;  adding  with  faint  hope— 
' '  Peradventure  the  semantron  will  frighten  it  away. ' ' 

11  Tis  not  that  I  am  frightened,"  said  Gerasimos,  his 
teeth  chattering.  "  But— my  God!  what  is  that!  " 

The  click  of  the  latch  and  the  grating  of  the  door  open- 


296  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

ing  slowly  were  with  Gerasimos  to  his  dying  day.  His 
boasted  courage  fled.  Elias  shared  his  emotions.  But  be- 
fore they  could  tell  who  the  intruder  might  be,  a  gust 
extinguished  the  lamp.  The  refectory  was  at  once  plunged 
in  darkness.  Nothing  was  to  be  heard  save  the  wailing 
of  the  wind;  a  sound  dismal  at  all  times,  but  when  ac- 
companied by  superstitious  fears,  sufficient  to  terrify  the 
boldest.  The  impression  of  something  standing  silent  and 
watchful  in  the  strong  draught  caused  by  the  open  door 
was  unmistakable. 

At  length  a  familiar  voice  was  heard,  calling  upon  the 
brethren  by  name. 

"  'Tis  Brother  Stephanos!  "  cried  Elias  with  in- 
describable relief. 

"  Let  us  re-light  the  lamp,"  proposed  Gerasimos,  mop- 
ping his  brow. 

"  Nay."  The  voice  of  Stephanos  rang  loud.  The  two 
monks  heard  its  peremptory  tone  with  astonishment.  It 
continued : — ' '  I  have  somewhat  to  tell  you,  now,  at  once. ' ' 

"  But,"  objected  Gerasimos,  peering  uneasily  into  the 
darkness  whence  the  voice  proceeded.  "  But  we  may  not 
hold  converse  with  you.  The  venerable  father  has  forbid- 
den it.  God  forgive  us,  we  have  already  sinned.  But  you 
took  us  unawares." 

"  Ay,  did  he,"  corroborated  Elias  warmly. 

"  You  will  not  listen  ?  " 

"  We  may  not."  The  good-natured  little  monk  ges- 
ticulated appealingly,  as  though  he  could  be  seen;  then 
with  a  sudden  pang  of  conscience  and  addressing  himself 
exclusively  to  Elias,  "  May  we,  brother?  " 

"  By  no  manner  of  means.  A  penance  is  a  penance, 
and  must  be  obeyed.  Come,  Brother  Gerasimos,  it  grows 
late.  Let  us  seek  our  cells." 

"  Fools!  "  The  epithet  was  hurled  at  them.  It  caused 
them  to  blink  with  amazement.  "  O  fools,  ye  that  have 
eyes  and  see  not,  ye  that  close  your  ears  lest  ye  may 
hear!  But  you  shall  hear!  There  is  a  woman  in  the 
monastery." 

But  upon  neither  of  the  old  men  did  the  information 
take  immediate  effect.  Their  senses,  dulled  by  age  and 
grievously  harassed  by  the  weather,  were  simply  be- 
wildered. As  they  gaped  into  the  darkness,  the  voice  of 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  297 

Stephanos  continued  to  speak.  But  its  warnings  were  now 
mingled  with  wild  denunciations,  blasphemous  pretensions, 
savage  personal  rancour,  the  whole  so  tinged  with  the 
very  breath  of  insanity  that  the  brethren's  horror  was  con- 
centrated upon  the  monk  himself. 

Stephanos  broke  off  abruptly.  For  a  moment  he  lin- 
gered; then  the  protracted  silence  conveying  to  his  mind 
only  hopeless  and  inconceivable  stupidity,  he  hurled  an 
imprecation  at  them  and  strode  away. 

Gerasimos  sought  for  and  found  the  arm  of  Elias. 

"  Mad!  "  he  quavered.    "  God  forgive  us  all!  " 

"  Amen,"  muttered  Elias. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

WITHIN  one  of  the  underground  passages  Petros  and 
Zetitzka  kept  their  last  tryst. 

A  glimmer  of  light  came  from  the  outer  world  and, 
dawning  through  the  rude  opening  cut  in  the  living  rock, 
dimly  revealed  a  section  of  the  passage — a  portion  of  the 
inner  wall  pierced  by  the  doorway  of  a  cell — a  cave  of 
unmitigated  blackness  on  either  hand  where  the  gallery 
lost  itself  in  gloom — and,  finally,  the  figures  of  Petros  and 
Zetitzka  seated  on  a  log  that  overlooked  the  abyss. 

Though  shorn  of  its  strength  by  the  mass  of  rock,  the 
wind  could  be  heard  raving  in  the  darkness,  sweeping 
over  vast,  benighted,  and  desolate  spaces;  at  times  with 
a  note  of  anger;  at  others,  sobbing  and  wailing  piteously. 

It  wandered,  too,  into  the  passage — not  with  violence, 
but  in  fitful  draughts,  mournful  as  a  sigh. 

All  around,  the  monastery  brooded.  It  had  the  air  of 
one  who  waits  for  something  inevitable ;  of  one  who,  intent 
upon  some  climax  unimagined  by  others,  heeds  neither 
wind  nor  night. 

Never  before  had  this  air  of  sinister  expectation  been 
so  marked — not  even  in  the  dusk  of  Zetitzka 's  first  ascent. 
The  little  old  buildings  seemed  to  know  all.  Since  first 
one  stone  had  been  laid  upon  another  no  such  forbidden 
companionship  had  taken  place.  The  deep-rooted  and 
ancient  hostility  to  women  that  steeped  the  minds  of  the 
monks  appeared  to  have  passed  to  the  grey  walls  that 
gave  them  shelter.  There  was  something  ominous  in  their 
impassivity,  in  their  muteness ;  something  vaguely  disquiet- 
ing in  their  grim  alliance  with  the  night.  They  darkly 
threatened,  raising  themselves  with  the  distortion  of  things 
obscure,  into  the  ragged  and  flying  chaos  of  the  sky. 

The  very  wind,  a  creature  of  moods,  seemed  to  partake 
of  this  emotion.  It,  too,  appeared  strangely  animate,  full 
of  querulous  and  senile  animosity.  * l  A  woman !  "  it 

298 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  299 

seemed  to  wail.  * '  A  woman !  ' '  Upon  its  wings  the  souls 
of  monks  long  dead  shuddered  past — struck  with  impotent 
spite  of  the  girlish  figure,  snatched  in  angry  draughts  at 
her  costume;  then  fleeing  back  to  the  monastery,  moaned 
her  secret  to  the  cloisters  in  whispers  of  inarticulate  horror. 

For  Petros,  sitting  motionless  by  Zetitzka's  side,  neither 
the  night  nor  the  storm  existed,  except  in  as  far  as  they 
had  to  do  with  her,  with  her  presence,  her  departure.  A 
blacker  gloom  than  that  which  confronted  his  physical  eyes 
stretched  before  his  mental  vision.  In  one  hour,  perhaps 
less,  it  would  have  engulfed  his  life  for  ever.  He  was  too 
steeped  in  the  blackness  of  the  present  to  see,  or  even 
to  think  of  any  possible  light  in  the  future.  No  inkling 
of  what  this  experience  might  ultimately  mean  to  him 
brought  consolation  to  his  mind.  He  was  stunned.  ' '  She 
is  going  away — she  is  going  away!  "  He  repeated  this 
over  and  over  to  himself,  repeated  it  stupidly,  mechanically ; 
but  it  conveyed  nothing  definite  to  his  mind.  It  was  all  so 
impossible  that  he  could  not  believe  that  it  was  to  him — 
Petros — that  this  calamity  had  come.  That  the  morrow 
would  dawn  when  he  would  seek  her  and  find  her  not — that 
endless  morrows  would  follow,  all  empty,  all  hopeless,  was 
a  contingency  so  appalling  as  to  be  unthinkable. 

His  thoughts  slid  almost  unconsciously  into  the  old 
familiar  groove  of  prayer,  worn  deep  by  training  and  life- 
long habit.  That  God  would  grant  him  strength — such  was 
now  his  passionate,  yet  inaudible  cry — strength  to  conceal 
his  misery — strength  to  spare  her  unnecessary  pain. 
'  *  Great  and  Merciful  God,  for  her  sake !  ' ' 

And  he  was  answered.  Little  by  little,  as  during  that 
hour  of  temptation  in  the  Catholicon,  something  came  to 
him.  With  fear,  with  solemn  and  unspeakable  awe,  he 
was  conscious  of  it  taking  possession  of  his  soul.  Under 
its  influence  he  grew  strong.  His  fever  and  restlessness 
abated.  A  composure  foreign  to  his  nature  descended 
upon  him,  more  spiritual,  more  saint-like  than  he  had  ever 
before  attained.  His  spirit  looked  down  as  from  some  im- 
mense height  upon  his  suffering  heart. 

And  yet  never  before  had  all  that  was  human  in  him 
desired  her  more  passionately;  never  before  had  his  man's 
heart  worshipped  her  with  more  complete  absorption. 
That  she  was  going  away  made  her,  if  possible,  more  un- 


300  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

•alterably  dear,  more  inseparable  from  his  very  existence. 

It  was  no  light-won  victory  over  self  that  this  boy  was 
gaining.  Temptation  was  not  dead.  It  still  beset  him  in 
a  hungering  impotent  yearning  to  recall  the  past. 

One  memory  in  particular  obsessed  him,  causing  his 
heart  to  ache  with  a  wild  and  barren  fervour  of  regret — 
one  memory,  the  recollection  of  one  sunset.  The  pale 
gleams  of  the  western  cliffs  had  thrown  a  shadow  of  light 
behind  her,  as  though  the  sun  were  lingering.  From  out 
of  this  radiance  she  had  come  to  him.  Ah,  the  grace  of 
her  coming! — the  gladness  that  always  came  with  her! 
Never  again  would  he  see  that  light  from  the  closing  of 
the  west  without  thinking  of  her.  Alas!  if  it  came  to 
that,  what  hereafter  was  he  to  see  in  earth  or  heaven  with- 
out thinking  of  her? 

When  the  wind  moaned  along  the  passage  it  stirred  the 
white  embroideries  of  her  costume.  These  fluttering 
draperies,  so  indissolubly  associated  with  his  first  recol- 
lection of  her,  reminded  him  that  the  moments  were  fleet- 
ing. As  never  before  did  he  realise  the  value  and  terrible 
evanescence  of  time;  how  each  little  second  can  be  more 
precious  than  the  heart's  blood,  yet  pass  swiftly  and  lightly, 
as  of  no  account. 

Already  something  in  his  soul  was  deepening,  broaden- 
ing, ripening  swiftly  to  maturity,  although  he  knew  it  not. 
Life  was  dealing  with  him.  Suddenly  aroused  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  neglect,  she  was  taking  him  in  hand  at 
last.  Once,  in  his  ignorance,  he  had  asked  for  sorrow,  and 
she  had  given  him  happiness;  now  when  he  longed  for 
happiness,  she  gave  him  sorrow.  Like  a  piece  of  metal 
full  of  alloy,  yet  full  also  of  beautiful  possibilities,  his 
soul  was  tossed  into  the  crucible  of  suffering.  Life  waited 
the  result. 

The  moon  struggled  through  the  clouds.  Zetitzka's  face 
shone  clear.  Her  eyes  hung  upon  his.  Within  them 
Petros  read  depth  beyond  depth  of  passion  and  sadness, 
blackness  of  despair  and  thoughts  too  deep  for  tears. 

Since  Petros  had  told  her  that  she  must  leave  the 
monastery,  Zetitzka  had  been  as  one  crushed;  a  strange 
apathy  had  taken  possession  of  her,  a  numbness  of  feel- 
ing that  enabled  her  to  perform  her  duties  as  though 
another,  and  not  she,  were  obliged  to  dust  and  to  sweep. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  301 

She  had  come  to  this  last  meeting  obeying  Petros 
mechanically,  as  she  would  have  obeyed  him  in  all  things. 
Her  proud  free  spirit,  which  even  disgrace  and  Stephanos 
had  been  unable  to  conquer,  was  at  last  subdued.  She  had 
become  gentle  and  acquiescent,  pathetically  touching  in  her 
resignation;  speaking  only  when  forced  to  do  so,  conceal- 
ing  her  misery  beneath  a  calm  exterior.  Something  in  her 
soul,  faintly  responsive  and  unknown  to  her,  already  dimly 
apprehended  the  spirit  that  raised  and  controlled  the  man 
she  loved. 

For  long  they  sat  side  by  side  in  silence,  gazing  out- 
wards and  downwards,  less  conscious  of  the  dark  world 
below  than  of  their  own  sad  and  profoundly  troubled 
thoughts. 

The  wind  had  lulled.  Around  the  monastery  it  fell 
strangely  silent,  as  though  worn  out  by  its  own  violence; 
but  it  could  still  be  heard  sweeping  dismally  over  the  be- 
nighted plains. 

All  at  once  Petros  looked  round.  For  a  moment  he 
stared  into  the  blackness  of  the  passage,  then  turning 
to  his  companion,  asked  her  if  she  had  heard  anything. 

"  Only  the  wind,"  she  answered. 

"  It  seemed  unto  me "  He  cast  another  apprehen- 
sive glance  over  his  shoulder.  "  But,  no !  none  would  come 
here  at  this  hour.  And  yet — perchance  it  is  Dimitri.  He 
promised  to  be  with  us  at  the  tenth  hour.  Listen " 

They  both  listened,  holding  their  breath.  A  distant 
moaning  came  from  the  monastery.  It  rose  and  fell  fit- 
fully, and  again  the  chill  subterranean  draughts  breathed 
upon  them. 

He  continued  gravely:  "The  hour  is  at  hand.  The 
brethren  are  in  their  cells.  The  venerable  father  was 
aweary  to-night ;  past  doubt  he,  too,  sleeps.  I  marvel  much 
what  keeps  Dimitri.  I  must  go  and  see." 

She  made  no  attempt  to  keep  him.  Something  in  her 
attitude  pierced  his  heart. 

"  I  will  not  be  long  gone,"  he  faltered.  "  You  do  not 
fear  to  stay  alone  ?  ' ' 

Her  face  was  averted,  but  he  saw  her  shake  her  head. 
He  said  no  more.  The  sound  of  his  retreating  footsteps 
reverberated  from  the  blackness — grew  fainter — died  away. 

Suddenly   there   fell  upon   Zetitzka   an   overwhelming 


302  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

sense  of  desolation.  It  made  itself  felt  even  through  the 
dull  apathy  of  despair,  striking  her  with  a  quivering  sense 
of  misery.  No  longer  buoyed  up  by  the  presence  of  Petros, 
she  broke  down  utterly.  Hot  tears  coursed  down  her 
cheeks.  Her  impotence  to  do  aught  but  submit  roused 
again  her  fierce  mountain  blood.  If  she  could  only  fight 
— only  tear  down  this  great  inhuman  monastery  with  her 
hands!  But,  no;  Barlaam,  stern  and  impassive  opposed 
her  with  its  old  imperturbable  silence.  Passionately  she 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  stars.  But  they  shone  down 
upon  her  with  cold  indifference.  There  was  nothing  in 
earth  or  heaven  to  lend  an  ear  to  her  despair. 

Little  by  little  she  became  calmer;  her  tears  ceased  to 
flow.  Now  and  again  a  laboured  sob  broke  from  her.  But 
even  that  was  in  time  suppressed.  Then,  with  head  bowed 
to  her  hands,  motionless,  she  sat  for  long  unconscious 
of  her  surroundings. 

What  was  that?  Zetitzka  raised  her  head.  All  was 
still,  for  the  wind  had  dropped ;  but  the  sound  behind  her 
had  set  every  nerve  ajar. 

All  at  once  she  felt  frightened.  She  tried  to  fight  down 
this  fear,  but  failed.  Some  instinct,  stronger  than  her  will, 
impelled  her  to  turn  till  she  could  gaze  into  the  inner 
darkness. 

A  black  mass  half  blocked  the  passage  towards  which 
she  now  looked.  She  knew  it  to  be  firewood,  stored  against 
the  winter.  She  told  herself  so,  to  shame  her  fear.  But 
in  the  very  act  of  reassuring  herself,  her  heart  leapt  to 
her  mouth.  Something  moved!  Something  beyond  the 
margin  of  moonlight  that  glimmered  a  ghostly  blue  into 
the  gallery.  She  saw  it.  There  was  no  mistake.  Some- 
thing was  lurking  there — in  the  blackness. 

Full  of  a  strange  frozen  terror,  she  watched.  A  moment 
of  suspense,  then  the  darkness  appeared  to  solidify,  to  come 
nearer,  and  in  this  moving  obscurity  Zetitzka  saw  a  grey 
face  with  eyes  fixed  on  hers — the  face  of  Stephanos. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

REACHING  the  courtyard,  Petros  paused  for  a  moment 
where  an  angle  of  the  Catholicon  gave  shelter  from  the 
wind.  Now  that  he  was  forced  to  concentrate  his  atten- 
tion upon  it,  Dimitri's  absence  distressed  him  not  a  little. 
All  had  been  carefully  arranged.  He  remembered  perfectly 
not  only  his  own  suggestion,  that  they  should  meet  in 
the  underground  passage,  but  also  Dimitri  's  consent  thereto. 
Knowing  the  muleteer  and  his  feelings  toward  Zetitzka, 
Petros  recognised  that  something  serious  had  taken  place. 

At  the  extreme  end  of  the  cloisters  he  called  aloud, 
but  guardedly,  on  account  of  the  proximity  of  the  monks. 
No  such  precaution,  however,  was  necessary,  for  the  wind, 
pouncing  upon  the  cry,  whirled  it  exultantly  into  the 
night. 

The  familiar  court  was  a  desolate,  blustering  semi- 
obscurity  hedged  about  with  an  impenetrable  gloom.  Well 
was  it  for  the  boy  that  he  could  have  traversed  it  blind- 
fold, for  loose  and  displaced  flagstones  formed  traps  for 
inexperienced  feet.  As  he  struggled  onwards,  buffeted 
by  the  gale,  a  growing  anxiety  took  possession  of  him. 
His  eyes,  smarting  from  the  fine  driving  dust,  sought  on 
all  sides  for  the  muleteer's  familiar  form.  In  vain.  All 
was  deserted. 

Entering  the  dark  refectory,  he  consulted  the  clock  by 
the  aid  of  a  lighted  match.  It  wanted  but  a  quarter  of 
eleven.  In  three-quarters  of  an  hour  the  semantron  would 
summon  the  brethren  to  the  duties  of  another  day.  At 
that  a  wild  hope,  scarce  formulated,  fluttered  in  his  breast 
— the  hope  that  something  might  yet  happen  to  prevent 
Zetitzka 's  departure.  But  he  drove  this  weakness  sternly 
from  his  mind. 

With  no  definite  expectation,  he  bent  his  steps  towards 
the  ladders.  In  the  passage,  and  in  the  hut  that  over- 
hung the  ravine,  the  darkness  was  opaque.  As  he  groped 

303 


304  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

his  way  onward,  around  him  on  all  sides  the  ancient  wood- 
work groaned  and  creaked,  the  plaintive  sounds  mingling 
ceaselessly  with  the  fierce  onslaught  of  the  wind. 

Reaching  the  trap-door,  the  absence  of  upward  draught 
struck  Petros  with  sudden  consternation.  Swiftly  he  felt 
for  the  void,  but  his  hands  encountered  only  the  massive 
lid.  The  ponderous  padlock  was  in  its  place.  Barely  had 
he  time  to  recognise  all  that  this  meant,  when  he  was 
startled  by  a  muffled  cry.  It  rose  from  the  boards  at  his 
feet. 

"  Dimitri!  "  he  shouted. 

Above  the  elemental  clamour  came  a  reply.  Only 
mutilated  fragments  reached  Petros  as  he  listened,  his 
ear  to  the  flooring.  From  them  he  understood  that  the 
muleteer,  having  climbed  the  ladders  and  finding  the  en- 
trance barred,  was  waiting  his  arrival.  A  metallic  screech 
punctuated  by  dull  reiterated  thuds,  became  audible — the 
oscillation  of  the  ladder  and  its  violent  contact  with  the 
face  of  the  cliff.  More  than  aught  else,  this  spoke  of  the 
danger  braved  by  the  man  who  for  the  better  part  of  an 
hour,  had  clung  to  the  swaying  rungs,  shaken  to  and  fro 
in  the  blackness,  while  below  him  yawned  the  invisible  ter- 
rors of  the  abyss. 

"Waiting  for  a  lull,  Petros  shouted  instructions.  The 
key  was  unaccountably  lost.  To  seek  it  now  would  only 
be  to  court  discovery.  They  must  do  without  it.  He, 
Petros,  would  bring  Zetitzka  to  the  tower  of  the  wind- 
lass, and  lower  her  in  the  net.  Dimitri  must  wait 
below. 

In  his  voice  there  rang  a  note  of  unconscious  leadership 
that  caused  the  muleteer  to  wonder.  Recognising  that 
these  instructions  were  the  only  practical  solution  of  the 
dilemma,  he  contented  himself  with  shouting  acquiescence; 
then  cautiously  and  with  difficulty  began  the  descent. 

Petros  was  already  retracing  his  steps  to  the  court.  Im- 
patience burned  hot  within  him,  a  jealous  grudge  of  each 
second  that  separated  him  from  Zetitzka.  This  fever  of  long- 
ing was  aggravated  by  a  fear  lest  even  now  some  untoward 
accident  might  prevent  him  reaching  her.  These  turbulent 
emotions  were  strangely  at  variance  with  the  spiritual  ex- 
altation that  still  was  as  a  lamp  to  his  soul. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  305 

As  he  penetrated  the  blackness  of  the  underground  pas- 
sage, groping  for  the  wall  with  extended  hands,  the  sound 
of  a  scream,  faint  yet  full  of  unnameable  terror,  rang  along 
the  gallery. 


20 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

ZETITZKA  had  started  to  her  feet  and  now  stood  facing 
Stephanos,  her  back  towards  the  precipice.  The  monk 
advanced  slowly  and  under  compulsion,  as  it  seemed,  com- 
ing to  a  standstill  within  a  couple  of  yards  of  where  she 
stood.  Rigid  in  the  extremity  of  her  consternation,  she 
could  do  nothing  but  stare.  If  Barlaam  had  rocked  with 
earthquake,  she  could  not  have  withdrawn  her  eyes. 

The  expression  of  his  face  had  for  her  a  horrible  fascina- 
tion. It  almost  mesmerised  her.  Writ  unmistakably  upon 
it  were  attraction  and  repulsion.  Zetitzka  could  not  dif- 
ferentiate between  these :  she  saw  only  the  repellent  effect, 
and  panic  seized  her. 

She  was  alone,  entombed  with  this  man  in  the  heart 
of  the  rock.  Until  Petros  returned,  no  help  could  reach 
her.  So  full  of  brewing  danger  did  he  look,  as  he  stood 
there,  not  speaking,  only  holding  her  with  menacing  eyes, 
that  Zetitzka 's  brain  suggested  flight.  But  what  use? 
He  would  overtake  her  at  once.  She  might  have  screamed 
for  assistance,  but  to  do  so  was  foreign  to  her  nature: 
and  moreover  the  danger  of  discovery  by  others  than  Petros 
was  too  great  to  permit  of  her  running  the  risk. 

He  recognised  her.  She  felt  it.  There  was  that  in  his 
expression  that  reminded  her  of  their  last  meeting  in  the 
mountains.  It  appeared  to  her  now  as  if  this  scene  were 
a  continuation  of  the  other,  as  if  all  that  had  taken  place 
in  the  interval  were  a  dream. 

And  yet  there  was  now  a  more  ominous  glitter  in  his 
eyes,  more  fanatical,  more  unhinged,  more  hideous  in  its 
warring  suggestions  of  sensuality  and  abhorrence. 

How  long  they  stood  thus  Zetitzka  could  not  have  told. 
It  was  probably  to  be  counted  by  seconds,  though  to  her 
it  seemed  hours.  If  only  he  would  move!  If  only  he 
would  speak!  But  no — he  seemed  incapable  of  doing 
anything,  save  of  devouring  her  with  his  gaze. 

306 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  307 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  she  cried  in  desperation. 

The  inflection  of  her  voice — once  so  familiar — raced  to 
his  brain  like  wine.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  Zetitzka  her- 
self made  audible — her  very  body,  with  all  its  appeal  to 
his  starved  senses,  offering  itself  to  him  through  the  medium 
of  sounds.  So  equally  balanced  were  the  contradictory 
forces  that  swayed  him  that  it  needed  but  this  to  give  the 
victory.  A  tremulous  eagerness  leapt  to  his  face. 

"  Speak  again!  "  he  entreated. 

But  Zetitzka  stood  dumb.  His  manner  filled  her  with 
fear,  and  with  loathing  stronger  than  fear.  He  recalled 
what  she  would  give  her  very  soul  to  forget.  Then  she  had 
been  an  ignorant  girl — wax  in  his  hands — taking  the  base 
coin  of  lust  for  the  pure  gold  of  love.  She  knew  better 
now.  All  within  her  that  was  noble  and  womanly,  all  that 
had  gladdened  and  thrilled  at  the  innocent  worship  of 
Petros,  rose  in  arms.  Could  this  man  have  seen  her  eyes, 
he  would  have  quailed.  But  her  face  was  hid  from  him 
by  shadow. 

He  was  gazing  hungrily  at  the  dim  whiteness  of  her 
Albanian  costume.  Evil  thoughts  crept  from  memory  like 
unclean  beasts  from  their  lairs.  So  powerful  were  they 
that  they  even  obscured  his  vision. 

Down  the  passage  came  the  draught,  fluttering  his  cas- 
sock; afar  off,  with  a  sigh  of  grievous  unrest,  raved  the 
wind. 

"  Zetitzka!  "  he  cried. 

The  cry  sounded  a  note  of  unconditional  surrender  to  the 
flesh.  It  rendered  impotent  all  stripes,  all  vigils,  all  fasts, 
all  penance,  all  prayer. 

He  stood  before  her,  speechless,  his  arms  outstretched, 
his  face  aflame.  So  fierce  was  the  repulsion  he  caused  her 
that  she  clenched  her  fists. 

As  they  stood  thus,  a  cloud  concealed  the  moon.  Dark- 
ness swept  across  the  mouth  of  the  passage.  From  this 
obscurity  came  his  voice,  low,  all  but  strangled,  passionate, 
incoherent.  She  was  forced  to  hear  him. 

He  told  of  his  agony  of  mind,  of  his  nights  of  torture; 
of  hallucinations,  when  he  had  thought  to  leap  into  her 
arms  but  had  dashed  himself  upon  the  floor  of  his  cell; 
of  fits  of  despair,  when,  thinking  himself  irredeemably  lost, 
he  had  torn  his  flesh  with  his  teeth  and  rent  the  air  with 


308  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

cries.  And  through  these  confessions  there  rang  ever  a 
personal  note — his  desire  for  her,  for  her  only,  for  her  face, 
her  hands,  her  body — for  everything  that  had  damned  his 
soul  in  the  past,  but  which  had  gnawed  at  memory  ever 
since. 

He  returned  to  this  again  and  again,  insisting,  implor- 
ing, with  a  spasmodic  yet  terrible  earnestness;  gesticulat- 
ing, now  with  frenzy,  now  with  fawning,  now  with  a 
vehement  and  exalted  imperiousness. 

At  times  the  madman  and  at  times  the  devil  spoke  with 
his  lips.  He  would  turn  from  incoherent  ravings  to 
fiendish  triumph.  He  exulted  in  her  downfall,  because  he, 
Stephanos,  had  been  the  first  to  teach  her  passion.  He 
forgot  nothing,  repented  of  nothing,  feared  nothing.  His 
voice  rang  loud  in  crazy  elation,  while  behind  him  in  the 
blackness,  the  echoes  muttered  fearfully. 

"  What  is  hell?  "  he  questioned  with  sombre  passion. 
"  Here  they  would  say  it  was  you — to  love  you.  So  be 

it "    He  opened  wide  his  arms  as  though  embracing 

some  dark  and  fearful  prospect.  "  Welcome,  hell!  We 
will  be  there,  in  flames,  but  together — you  and  I,  Zetitzka. ' ' 

She  dared  not  recede.  Her  position  was  terrible.  She 
was  trapped  on  that  narrow  ledge  of  rock.  On  either  hand 
rose  sheer  cliff;  behind  her,  the  precipice — a  black  and 
windy  void  descending  to  appalling  depths ;  before  her,  this 
madman,  blocking  the  only  exit. 

"  You  do  not  speak."  His  voice  sank  again  to  low 
tones  of  pleading ;  his  face,  now  but  a  yard  from  her  own, 
showed  white  with  glittering  eyes.  "  You  do  not  speak, 
Zetitzka;  but  I  know  what  you  would  say.  You  love  me 
still.  You  followed  me  here.  I  was  a  fool  to  leave  you. 
We  were  made  for  each  other,  as  fire  is  for  fuel.  Come, 
Zetitzka,  give  me  peace,  in  your  arms.  There  only  can  I 
find  rest  and  forgetfulness.  It  has  all  been  a  mistake— 
a  woful  mistake;  but  we  will  begin  again." 

Then  with  an  eager  entreaty  which  she  could  not  but 
recognise  as  sane,  he  continued :  ' '  See !  I  have  the  key 
to  the  ladders.  They  will  not  know  till  we  are  gone.  Let 
us  fly  together,  now. ' ' 

She  shot  a  desperate  glance  past  him  into  the  passage. 
Would  Petros  never  return ! 

"  Come!  "  he  whispered  again. 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  309 

\ 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  about  to  advance.  Des- 
peration again  came  to  her  aid.  Her  courage  rose. 

* '  Let  me  pass !  ' '  she  commanded. 

Thwarted  desire  blazed  in  his  eyes.  It  reawoke  his 
fanaticism.  Remorse,  in  that  he  had  so  nearly  succumbed, 
swept  down  upon  him,  causing  him  to  lean  against  the 
wall. 

His  movement  left  one  side  of  the  passage  unguarded. 
Swiftly  Zetitzka  darted  for  the  opening.  But  as  she 
thought  to  speed  past  him,  bending  her  head  to  avoid  his 
elbow,  his  right  hand  shot  out  and  gripped  her  by  the 
shoulder. 

She  struggled  violently.  The  thick  stuff  of  her  Albanian 
tunic  was  partly  dragged  from  her  back,  but  did  not  tear. 
Suddenly  she  felt  his  other  arm  flung  around  her  waist. 
Doubly  a  prisoner  and  resisting  desperately,  she  was  drawn 
towards  him,  crushed  against  his  chest. 

In  the  draughty  semi-blackness  of  the  passage  the  un- 
equal combat  continued.  No  sound  escaped  them  save  their 
panting  breath  and  the  scraping  of  their  feet  seeking  for 
purchase. 

Naturally  strong — her  hardy  open-air  life  having  trained 
her  to  endurance — Zetitzka  felt  with  dismay  that  her 
strength  was  as  nothing  to  his.  And  that  which  filled  her 
less  with  terror  than  with  choking  repulsion  was  that  this 
was  to  him  a  moment  of  ecstasy. 

His  grip  shifted.  With  a  woman  'g  intuition  Zetitzka 
felt  that  he  was  straining  to  join  his  lips  to  hers.  Her  blood 
boiled.  With  Petros  enshrined  in  her  heart,  this  was  not 
only  an  insult,  but  a  sacrilege.  Her  yataghan  was  once 
more  in  her  belt.  She  struggled  to  reach  it,  but  in  vain. 
He  parried  every  movement,  tightening  his  arms  till  she 
could  scarcely  breathe. 

"  No,"  he  muttered,  his  mouth  against  her  hair.  "  You 
shall  not  escape  me.  God  wills  it.  We  die  together." 

Gradually  she  felt  herself  forced  backward,  her  head 
held  in  a  vice  against  his  chest.  While  her  body  fought, 
her  mind  was  able  to  think.  Was  this  her  end?  Her 
child  flashed  to  her  memory.  She  would  never  see  him 
again.  The  pang  of  this  eternal  separation  was  tempered 
by  dull  indifference.  Better  to  get  it  over  now,  at  once. 
But  even  as  she  welcomed  this  imminent  death,  something 


310 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND 


within  her  recoiled.  She  was  glad  to  die;  but  not  thus, 
not  with  Stephanos.  And  again  she  became  conscious  of 
the  struggle,  and  set  herself  with  mute  desperation  to  stay 
this  backward  movement  that  was  forcing  her  towards  the 
verge. 

Her  woman's  strength  was  failing  fast.  His,  on  the  con- 
trary, seemed  to  redouble.  She  felt  his  broad  chest  heave 
with  effort,  but  the  grip  of  his  arms  never  relaxed.  Nearer 
and  nearer  they  drew  to  the  unprotected  edge.  Suddenly, 
as  they  tottered  on  the  dizzy  brink,  some  release  valve 
opened  in  Zetitzka's  brain.  She  screamed  aloud.  The 
cry  rang  through  the  hollow  passages,  and  startled  the 
eagles  in  the  dark  and  inaccessible  crannies  of  the  cliff. 

Her  impressions  of  all  that  followed  were  so  swift  in 
bewildering  transition  that  Zetitzka  looked  back  upon 
them  afterwards  with  the  shuddering  aversion  with  which 
one  recalls  a  nightmare.  She  was  conscious  of  a  rush  of 
feet — of  being  clutched — of  a  short  and  violent  struggle 
in  which  she  took  no  part — of  a  sudden  release — of  a  cry 
speedily  silenced — and,  finally,  of  a  blackness  that  surged 
over  her,  and  into  whose  lethal  depths  she  sank  with  the 
impassivity  of  a  stone. 


CHAPTER  L 

PANTING  from  the  struggle,  his  blood  aflame,  every  com- 
bative sense  roused  to  its  uttermost,  Petros  stood  on  the 
verge. 

But  silence  followed — absolute  silence,  bringing  home 
more  forcibly  than  any  spoken  word  the  reality  of  the 
catastrophe.  Aghast  and  overawed,  his  first  thought  was 
Zetitzka ;  but  the  girl  lay  unconscious  upon  the  rocky 
floor.  Filled  with  a  new  terror,  which  in  intensity 
swamped  all  lesser  fears,  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  her. 
But  her  hand  dropped  limply  from  his  fingers.  For  this 
there  was  to  his  ignorant  mind  but  one  solution.  Zetitzka 
was  dead. 

He  still  knelt  before  her  in  the  gloom  of  the  passage, 
all  feeling  paralysed,  staring  stupidly  at  the  beloved  figure 
— lying  there  so  motionless,  so  quiet — staring  with  the  mute 
and  as  yet  unrealised  despair  of  a  mourner  beside  a  coffin. 

And  when  with  returning  consciousness,  Zetitzka  moved, 
and  it  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  she  really  lived,  his 
brain,  worn  out  and  still  half  stunned  by  violent  emotions, 
accepted  the  glad  tidings  calmly ;  the  only  audible  evidence 
of  feeling  being  the  muttered  thanksgiving  that  broke 
from  his  lips. 

Zetitzka 's  memory  responded  slowly  to  the  efforts  of  her 
will.  Little  by  little  her  surroundings  recalled  the  terrible 
ordeal  through  which  she  had  passed — the  rough  walls 
glimmering  in  moonlight,  the  black  passage,  the  precipice. 
The  flash  of  time  between  the  struggle  for  life  and  the  find- 
ing herself  lying  unharmed  in  this  quiet  passage  was  so 
momentary  as  to  appear  non-existent.  But  neither  mind 
nor  body  could  at  once  accept  the  reality.  The  former  was 
bewildered,  stunned;  the  latter  still  suffered  from  the  ef- 
fect of  muscles  violently  strained. 

Her  first  coherent  thought  was  "  Stephanos?  "  Petros 
pointed  to  the  abyss. 

311 


312  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

The  gale  had  at  last  worn  itself  out.  The  contrast  be- 
tween the  hubbub  and  the  succeeding  silence  was  trenchant. 
The  night  had  donned  its  mantle  of  beauty,  and  the  peace, 
the  ethereal  light,  the  dreamy  distance,  all  gave  the  lie  to 
the  tragedy.  All  seemed  so  unconscious.  Yet  through 
that  little  door,  now  glimmering  in  faint  moonlight,  but 
a  moment  ago  a  soul  had  been  sent  to  its  account. 

Both  spectators  were  overwhelmed  by  the  suddenness 
of  the  catastrophe.  It  served  as  a  sombre  background  to 
the  tragedy  of  their  own  hearts.  To  Zetitzka,  accustomed 
to  brood  upon  a  past  so  poignantly  associated  with  the 
dead  man,  this  appalling  release  gave  birth  to  thoughts  as 
yet  unconscious  of  their  own  emancipation.  She  could  not 
realise  it.  Gradually,  as  the  power  to  think  returned,  the 
knowledge  came  that  vengeance  had  been  taken  from  her 
— that  the  deed  she  had  been  unable  to  perform  had  been 
accomplished  by  an  inexorable  decree  of  Providence — that 
God  in  His  inscrutable  wisdom  had  put  an  end  for  ever 
to  the  life  that  had  darkened  her  own. 

And  to  this  feeling  was  joined  another,  so  sad,  so  hope- 
less as  to  be  less  a  thought  than  a  bitter  and  inaudible  cry- 
that  although  this  man's  death  had  set  her  free,  both 
morally  and  physically — free  to  return  to  her  home,  free 
to  link  her  life  with  whom  she  pleased — it  yet  had  brought 
her  no  nearer  to  the  only  boon  she  coveted;  that  the  one 
man  she  loved  was  still  as  hopelessly  beyond  her  reach  as 
though  he,  and  not  Stephanos,  were  lying  dead  among  the 
rocks. 

It  was  during  these  solemn  moments  that  Petros  learned 
for  the  first  time  the  relationship  between  Stephanos  and 
Zetitzka.  The  broken  and  all  but  incoherent  confession 
stirred  no  violent  feelings  in  his  mind.  He  listened  in 
awestruck  silence.  Horror  was  beaten  down;  personal  in- 
dignation became  a  presumption;  for  uprearing  itself  like 
some  dark  barrier  between  the  monk  and  all  human  censure 
there  now  loomed  the  final  and  completed  sentence  of 
death. 

The  old  monastery  had  fallen  strangely  silent.  The  un- 
easy meanings,  as  of  anger  with  difficulty  restrained,  had 
died  away,  replaced  by  a  grim  voicelessness,  an  attitude 
of  sinister  satisfaction.  Barlaam  had  cast  forth  this  err- 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  313 

ing  son,  this  unworthy  monk  who  had  sought  to  conceal 
ineradicable  vices  beneath  the  holy  cloak  of  monasticism. 
It  had  flung  him  ruthlessly  to  the  abyss,  as  in  olden  times 
men  flung  traitors.  It  was  as  though  the  stern  and  me- 
diaeval spirit,  untamed  by  centuries  and  impatient  of  the 
light  penalty  imposed  by  his  fellow-men,  had  taken  pun- 
ishment into  its  own  hands.  Long  ago  in  the  dark  ages, 
it  had  without  doubt  witnessed  bloodshed;  and  now, 
outraged,  defiled,  vindictive  and  terrible  in  its  wrath  as 
some  old  heathen  deity,  it  again  exacted  sacrifice. 

But  it  had  not  yet  found  peace.  There  was  still  the 
woman  to  be  expelled. 

By  day,  by  night,  the  monastery  had  watched  her;  at 
dawn,  at  noon,  at  dusk;  never  more  awake  than  when  it 
seemed  asleep;  with  the  slow,  patient,  brooding  enmity  of 
one  deeply  wronged,  content  to  bide  his  time.  That  time 
had  now  come. 

Before  they  left  the  passage,  Petros  approached  the 
verge.  Below  lay  the  vast  soft-breathing  darkness,  illim- 
itable space  and  illimitable  profundity  shrouded  in  night. 
Vague  forms  loomed  through  this  obscurity,  full  of  the 
mysterious  awe  inspired  by  the  faintly-seen,  dim  outlines, 
gloomy  and  chaotic  masses,  far-off  and  ghostly  uncertain- 
ties. Over  this  weird  phantasmagoria  brooded  an  un- 
natural calm. 

Gazing  fearfully  downwards,  Petros  noted,  thirty  feet 
below,  a  projecting  ridge  of  rock,  jagged  and  sharply  in- 
clined. In  all  probability  this  knife-like  edge  had  been 
the  first  to  strike  at  the  life  of  Stephanos — terrible  as  the 
blow  of  a  guillotine — before  his  body  started  upon  its  last 
and  appalling  descent  to  the  rocks  below.  No  thought  that 
life  might  still  exist  passed  for  an  instant  across  the  mind  of 
the  boy.  At  this  point  the  precipice  fell  a  thousand  feet. 

With  hearts  too  big  for  words,  Petros  and  Zetitzka 
groped  their  way  back  to  the  court  and  to  the  tower  of 
the  windlass.  The  inexorable  drew  them  together,  and  yet 
onward  to  separation;  drew  them  irresistibly  and  relent- 
lessly, as  a  river  sweeps  its  waters  to  the  sea.  In  this  cur- 
rent they  moved  mechanically,  crushed  beneath  the  weight 
of  the  irrevocable.  Each  was  desperately  conscious  of 
something  within  protesting  against  fate,  clinging  to  every 


314  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

fleeting  moment,  rebelling  against  every  onward  step, 
striving  piteously  but  hopelessly  to  arrest  some  second  of 
treasured  companionship,  more  vividly,  more  tenderly 
realised  from  the  minutes  that  were  hurrying  them  to  their 
doom. 


CHAPTER  LI 

WITHIN  the  old  wooden  structure  all  was  dark  and  voice- 
less as  a  tomb.  Seen  faintly  against  the  glimmer  of  the 
aerial  exit,  the  great  barbaric  windlass  extended  its  four 
gaunt,  black  arms.  At  this  hour  the  place  was  full  of 
loneliness  and  mystery.  The  gloom  of  the  ravines  seemed 
to  have  crept  upwards,  to  have  enveloped  it,  for  it  had 
something  of  the  ghostliness  of  that  dolorous  underworld. 
Its  projection  over  space  lent  it  an  air  of  intentional  pre- 
cariousness,  as  though  it  nursed  designs  hostile  to  human 
life.  In  its  reserve  one  felt  the  influence  of  the  monastery, 
of  which,  indeed,  it  was  the  ante-chamber.  All  was  mute, 
save  the  creaking  of  the  worm-eaten  boards  disturbed  by 
the  pressure  of  unexpected  feet. 

Petros  and  Zetitzka  stood  beside  the  windlass. 

Up  to  this  moment,  danger  and  fear  of  discovery  had 
swept  them  along  on  a  stream  of  excitement — but  now 
one  fact  alone  rose  up,  not  to  be  denied  or  postponed — 
they  must  say  farewell. 

They  stood  together  in  the  gloom,  and  neither  said  a 
word.  But  what  each  felt  was  as  visible  to  the  other's 
heart  as  though  branded  upon  the  darkness  in  letters  of 
flame.  For  the  moment  they  had  ceased  to  stand  in  rela- 
tion to  each  other  merely  as  man  and  woman — they  were 
but  two  poor  human  souls  united  in  a  frank  community  of 
pain.  It  was  like  death — worse  than  death,  for  the  future 
was  not  hidden  from  them  in  mercy. 

All  at  once  something  burst  in  the  heart  of  Zetitzka. 
The  apathy  that  had  enabled  her  to  endure  was  suddenly 
dissipated.  With  uncontrollable  sobs  she  clung  with  both 
hands  to  the  breast  of  the  young  monk's  cassock.  He  felt 
her  shaking,  yet  found  no  consoling  word.  Her  face  was 
raised  to  his — close.  He  saw  the  mouth  and  the  agony  in 
the  eyes. 

315 


316  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

"  I  can't!  "  she  cried,  and  he  sickened  at  the  pain  in 
her  voice.  "  Petros,  I  can't — I  can't!  " 

Her  hands  strained  him  to  her.  The  darkness  seemed 
to  bend  above  them,  to  hide  them  from  the  indifferent 
world.  The  old  building  creaked  no  longer,  but  listened 
to  things  undreamt  of  in  all  its  hundreds  of  years. 

"  I  love  you!  "  she  whispered  passionately.  "  I  love 
you!  " 

Then,  as  never  before,  Petros  tasted  the  ultimate  bitter- 
ness of  life.  She  again  broke  the  silence,  speaking  through 
sobs  stifled  constantly. 

"  Just  now — with  Stephanos — I  was  afraid.  But  with 
you — I'm  not  afraid  to  die.  To  fall  in  your  arms.  Try 
me.  Now,  my  love!  Oh,  my  love!  " 

With  a  sudden  cry  Petros  caught  her  to  himself, 
crushed  her  against  his  breast,  as  if  by  that  passionate 
embrace  he  could  knit  the  fibres  of  her  very  existence  with 
his  own,  so  inextricably  that  neither  things  temporal  nor 
things  eternal  could  ever  tear  them  apart. 

In  the  sheltering  darkness  they  made  one,  one  body,  one 
soul,  one  life.  The  world  slid  away;  the  monastery  was 
forgotten.  They  alone  existed.  Their  natures  met  and 
mingled  in  that  fusion  of  spirit  pure  and  holy  wherewith 
love  can  bend  even  sorrow  to  its  uses. 

To  feel  his  arms  about  her,  strong  as  hoops  of  steel, 
masterful,  translating  into  fierce  pressure  all  the  impera- 
tive yearnings  of  his  desolate  life,  proclaiming  his  man- 
hood's right  to  love  and  possess,  filled  her  with  pain  that 
was  rapture,  and  with  oblivion  that  was  half  a  swoon. 
She  closed  her  eyes,  holding  back  the  tears.  Life  seemed 
suspended — suffering  almost  ceased. 

It  lasted  but  a  few  seconds,  and  yet  in  intensity  it  was 
not  of  moments,  nor  of  hours,  nor  of  years,  but  of  a  life- 
time. 

The  silence  around  them  was  so  profound  that  it  seemed 
as  if  all  nature  was  in  a  state  of  suspense,  wondering  what 
this  boy  and  girl  would  do.  The  abyss  beckoned — the 
blackness  of  the  ravine  held  out  soft  and  dusky  arms — 
the  moon  lit  her  pale  lamp  upon  the  opposing  cliff  as 
though  to  light  their  souls  to  eternity.  Only  the  monas- 
tery held  aloof,  watching  and  waiting  in  the  darkness  with 
the  composure  of  unshaken  confidence. 


FOEBIDDEN  GROUND  317 

For  Barlaam  knew  Petros.  He  belonged  to  it.  Had 
it  not  trained  him  from  early  youth?  Had  it  not  bound 
his  young  life  to  its  own  with  links  new-riveted  every  day  ? 
— bound  it  as  indissolubly  as  though  the  boy's  blood  were 
but  a  drop  of  its  own,  lent  to  him  that  it  might  become 
renovated  by  his  youth,  circulating  through  his  veins  only 
to  return  to  and  prolong  the  existence  of  its  weary  monas- 
tic heart. 

It  did  not  fear  this  woman,  nor  what  she  could  do.  It 
treated  her  as  men  treat  poisonous  reptiles — it  crushed, 
then  cast  her  out.  It  feared  to  be  deprived  of  Petros  by 
voluntary  death,  no  more  than  by  cowardly  flight.  It 
knew  his  sanity,  his  loyalty,  his  allegiance.  On  these  it 
relied.  And  as  some  potent  physician  might  watch  by  a 
sick-bed,  noting  with  grave  and  skilful  eyes  the  crisis  of 
some  grievous  malady,  not  without  solicitude,  yet  strong 
in  the  assured  hope  of  victory,  so  Barlaam  in  this  dark 
hour  of  trial  watched  this,  its  youngest  son. 

To  Petros  it  was  as  if  his  soul  were  struggling  in  vast 
waters.  The  anguish  of  severance  blinded  mental  vision. 
He  was  but  a  tool  in  God's  hands,  shaping  their  lives  to 
noble  ends. 

Later,  all  his  debt  to  Zetitzka  was  made  plain.  She 
was  to  reveal  to  him  the  hidden  meaning,  the  deep  signifi- 
cance of  love  and  sorrow,  this  girl  who  had  come  to  him 
so  unexpectedly,  like  a  precious  message  from  the  great 
unknown  world.  In  her  and  through  her  he  had  sounded 
the  depths,  soared  to  the  heights ;  and  her  last  and  greatest 
gift  was  to  be  the  gift  of  true  inward  vision,  that  came  to 
him  afterwards,  unawares,  the  guerdon  of  mutual  self- 
sacrifice,  of  solemn  and  voluntary  renunciation. 

In  the  midst  of  his  pain  it  was  brought  home  to  him 
that  he,  Petros,  held  Zetitzka 's  life  and  Zetitzka 's  fate  in 
his  hands  as  absolutely  as  he  held  her  body  within  his  arms. 
This  discovery  seemed  to  him  a  tremendous,  a  wonderful, 
an  awful  thing.  It  imparted  a  sense  of  power,  of  responsi- 
bility. It  gave  him  courage,  for  he  saw  that  all  depended 
on  him — that  he  must  think  and  act  at  once,  and  for  both. 

What  it  cost  him  to  find  words  that  would  reconcile  her 
to  this  cruel  parting,  Zetitzka  was  never  to  know.  It  was 
like  cutting  out  his  heart.  Pondering  upon  it  afterwards 
— as  he  was  destined  to  do,  how  many  times! — pondering 


318  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

upon  it  with  an  incredulous  wonder,  with  awe,  and  with 
thanksgiving,  Petros  could  recall  nothing  of  what  he  had 
said.  It  seemed  that  another  had  spoken,  and  not  he. 

And  Zetitzka,  still  in  his  arms,  almost  swooning,  and  all 
broken  with  grief,  remained  dumb.  He  wondered  if  she 
had  even  heard. 

When  at  last  he  ceased  to  speak,  she  seemed  to  rouse  her- 
self from  some  state  of  profound  stupor,  then  drew  one  long, 
sobbing,  inward  breath. 

"  Kiss  me,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  told  him  that  she  had  understood;  that  this 
meant  the  end,  the  supreme  farewell. 

Their  lips  met. 

They  did  not  speak  again.  Like  a  man  walking  in  his 
sleep,  he  placed  her  in  the  net,  looped  the  meshes  above 
her  head,  stringing  them  one  by  one  upon  the  iron  hook 
attached  to  the  clumsy  rope ;  then,  with  a  half -turn  of  the 
great  creaking  arms,  he  sent  her  swaying  outwards  into 
mid-air.  A  moment  she  oscillated  over  the  abyss;  then  as 
he  reversed  the  movement,  she  slowly  disappeared  from 
sight. 

Still  he  laboured,  mercifully  forced  to  exert  his  strength 
to  its  utmost,  walking  round  and  round,  gripping  and  re- 
straining the  clumsy  mechanism  that  groaned  and  cried  in 
the  darkness  like  a  soul  in  torment. 

At  length  the  relaxation  of  the  strain  told  him  that  she 
had  reached  earth.  Mechanically  wiping  the  sweat  from 
his  face,  he  groped  his  way  to  the  opening  through  which 
he  had  seen  the  last  of  Zetitzka.  Beneath  him,  as  he  peered 
downwards,  all  was  indistinguishable.  As  he  stood  listen- 
ing with  bated  breath,  a  faint  metallic  noise  tinkled  up 
from  the  depths — the  click  of  hoofs  striking  the  stones. 
His  hands  closed  convulsively  upon  the  wooden  barrier. 

Far  within  the  ravine  the  moonlight  drew  a  trenchant 
line  across  a  blackness  that  was  the  impenetrable  shadow 
of  Barlaam.  In  this  faintly  lighted  area  the  rocks  and 
a  section  of  the  path  were  visible.  Petros  was  conscious 
of  something  within  his  brain  telling  him  that  Zetitzka 
must  cross  this  on  her  downward  way  to  Kalabaka.  Stand- 
ing motionless,  with  the  strange,  unnatural  composure  that 
results  from  entire  suspension  of  thought,  he  waited. 

An  interval — then  something  far  below  crept  into  sight 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  319 

— something  dimly  distinguishable  as  a  man  leading  a 
mule,  upon  whose  back  was  seated  a  figure.  Slowly  yet 
relentlessly  this  little  group  crossed  the  moonlit  space, 
vanished  for  a  moment  behind  a  rock,  reappeared,  then 
gradually  neared  the  final  shadow  beyond  which  lay  dark- 
ness. In  another  second  it  would  be  gone. 

Petros,  rigid,  his  hands  still  gripping  the  wooden  bar, 
watched  it,  controlled  by  some  inner  force,  unconscious 
even  of  his  pain,  his  whole  soul  concentrating  itself  with 
a  hungry,  jealous  intensity  within  his  straining  eyes. 
Every  movement  of  those  little  figures,  far  below  and 
dwarfed  into  insignificance,  became  more  momentous, 
more  vitally  important  than  life  or  death. 

Then,  as  one  aroused  from  a  trance  to  some  horror  of 
reality,  he  suddenly  awoke  to  a  comprehension  of  what  was 
taking  place.  This  mere  speck  upon  the  moonlit  path  was 
all  the  happiness  and  hope  going  out  of  his  life!  Great 
dumb  tears,  gathering  slowly,  obscured  his  sight.  Fever- 
ishly dashing  them  aside,  he  sought  again  to  see.  At  first 
all  was  blurred,  then  gradually  through  a  mist  he  made 
out  the  path,  silvering  in  faint  moonlight — empty. 


CHAPTEE  LII 

"  THIS  is  the  Catholicon, "  said  the  monk. 

The  visitor  nodded.  In  spite  of  his  doffed  fez  it  was 
apparent  that  he  had  but  little  acquaintance  with 
Catholicons.  The  two  men  formed  a  striking  contrast — 
the  monk,  grave,  sedate,  slow  in  movement;  the  visitor 
bent  with  age  but  still  vigorous,  his  white  hair  straggling 
to  his  shoulders,  his  bushy  and  grizzled  eyebrows  working 
spasmodically,  the  one  over  a  sightless  cavity,  the  other 
above  a  small,  intelligent,  and  cynically-humorous  eye. 

The  sense  of  novelty  wearing  off,  the  stranger  took  a  keen 
and  apparently  professional  interest  in  the  vestments. 

"  You  are  a  pedlar?  "  questioned  the  monk,  with  mild 
curiosity. 

"  I  am  Nik  Leka,"  said  the  old  man  with  some  astonish- 
ment. 

But  the  information  conveyed  nothing  to  his  black-robed 
companion. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here?  "  asked  the  visitor 
abruptly,  fixing  his  keen  little  eye  upon  his  guide. 

"  Five — nearly  six  years." 

"  You  did  not  know "    He  checked  himself,  adding: 

"  You  came  after  the  old  Abbot's  death?  " 

The  monk  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"  And  your  new  Abbot — you  like  him,  you  others?  " 

"  We  love  him,"  said  the  monk  simply. 

As  though  by  mutual  consent  the  two  men  resumed  their 
relation  of  visitor  and  guide.  Nik  Leka,  called  upon  to 
admire  the  carving  of  the  pulpit,  touched  it  with  the  point 
of  an  unconsciously  appraising  forefinger. 

"  There  have  been  other  changes,"  he  blurted,  stopping 
suddenly.  His  companion  looked  down  into  the  wrinkled 
and  plebeian  face  with  its  raised  thatch  of  eyebrows. 

"  Deaths?  "  suggested  Nik  Leka  lightly. 

320 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  321 

"  Death  is  never  far  away,"  returned  the  monk,  crossing 
himself. 

The  pedlar  nodded  with  the  air  of  one  who  salutes  an 
old  acquaintance. 

"  And  departures,"  he  hazarded,  biting  his  nails. 

"  Departures?  " 

"  Not  lately,  perhaps;  but  before  you  came." 

"  I  have  heard  only  of  one  who  quitted  the  monastery 
of  his  own  will.  As  you  say,  it  was  before  I  came.  But 
it  was  no  great  matter.  He  had  not  taken  the  vows." 

"  But  there  was  another — Brother  Stephanos  he  was 
called." 

The  monk  crossed  himself. 

"  Killed?  "  suggested  Nik  Leka  indifferently. 

"  Yes — an  accident.  Kyrie  Eleison!  'tis  strange  that 
you  should  have  heard  of  that  also!  The  opening  is 
blocked  up  now.  'Twas  a  grievous  loss  to  the  monastery, 
so  they  tell  me.  He  was  a  saint." 

The  pedlar  made  a  curious  noise  in  his  throat. 

"  You  knew  him?  "  questioned  the  monk,  struck  by  the 
old  man 's  expression. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him." 

"  Praise  be  to  God  and  Saint  Barlaam!  It  is  doubtless 
his  holy  memory  that  brings  you  here?  " 

"  Ay,"  assented  Nik  Leka,  slowly.  "  His — and  an- 
other's." 

As  he  spoke,  the  doorway  was  darkened. 

"  The  Abbot,"  whispered  the  monk. 

Nik  Leka  waited  with  a  curious  feeling  of  expectation. 

The  Abbot  neared  them.  In  his  movements  the  vigour 
of  manhood  was  restrained  by  the  calm  but  unconscious 
dignity  of  office.  Not  till  he  was  come  within  a  few  yards 
of  where  they  were  standing  did  the  transverse  light  from 
a  window  enable  them  to  see  his  face.  It  awoke  in  Nik 
Leka  an  altogether  novel  and  even  disconcerting  sense  of 
respect.  Something  in  his  cynical  old  heart  tried  to  scoff 
at  this  unexpected  emotion,  but  failed.  He  continued  to 
stare  at  the  new-comer  with  a  fixity  that  would  have  been 
guilty  of  rudeness  had  it  not  been  so  unconscious  as  to  ap- 
pear unavoidable. 

The  whole  aspect  of  the  young  priest  betrayed  the 
ascetic,  living  in  a  world  within ;  yet  it  told  also  of  a  broad- 
21 


322  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

minded  humanity,  of  a  ready  sympathy  with  all  who  re- 
joiced, of  a  sense  of  oneness  with  all  who  suffered.  For 
his  eyes  gave  the  clue  to  his  character  and  held  a  mirror 
to  his  heart.  Looking  into  them,  one  felt  assured  that 
their  possessor  could  only  have  earned  the  right  to  that  ex- 
pression by  some  great  victory  over  self. 

"  Venerable  father,"  said  the  monk.  He  paused  as 
though  requesting  permission  to  continue;  and  Nik  Leka, 
quick  to  note  the  incongruity  of  the  title  with  the  youth- 
fulness  of  the  recipient,  wondered  afresh.  The  Abbot 
made  a  slight  gesture  with  his  hand.  The  monk  con- 
tinued : 

"  This  is  he  for  whom  I  asked  permission  to  visit  the 
monastery.  He  knew  Brother  Stephanos." 

A  sudden  gravity  came  into  the  Abbot's  face.  For  a 
moment  he  gazed  at  the  pedlar  with  something  more  than 
interest,  then  turned  to  his  subordinate. 

"  Leave  us,"  he  said  quietly. 

With  a  low  obeisance  the  monk  left  the  Catholicon.. 
The  faint  shuffle  of  sandals  died  away.  All  was  still. 

The  Abbot  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  knew  Brother  Stephanos  well,  my  son?  " 

11  Too  well,"  returned  Nik  Leka  grimly. 

The  young  Abbot  gazed  straight  into  the  old  man's  eye. 
11  I  know  not  your  name,"  he  said  frankly. 

The  pedlar's  answer  seemed  to  strike  a  familiar  chord, 
for  he  repeated  it  twice;  then  a  sudden  light  of  recogni- 
tion came  into  his  face. 

"  I  have  heard  of  you,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  You 
— you  befriended " 

"  I  did  nothing,"  grunted  Nik  Leka  ungraciously. 

The  two  men  fell  silent.  The  sunshine,  striving  to 
enter,  threw  the  porch  into  high  relief.  To  and  fro  in  the 
incense-laden  air  buzzed  a  blue-bottle  fly.  Its  little  noise 
made  a  stir  of  life  and  movement  that  emphasised  more 
than  it  detracted  from  the  deep  and  pervading  peace. 

"  You  hear  of  her  sometimes?  "  The  questioner  was 
gazing  towards  the  sunlight. 

' '  I  saw  her  last  month. ' ' 

For  a  moment  the  Abbot  seemed  lost  in  thought;  then, 
looking  at  the  pedlar  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  nothing 
to  conceal,  said: — 


FORBIDDEN  GROUND  323 

"It  is  long  since  I  heard.  News  comes  seldom  over  the 
mountains.  But — she  is  happy." 

The  last  words  were  not  a  question,  but  a  statement — 
something  known  intuitively,  beyond  doubt,  beyond  refu- 
tation. 

"  What  is  happiness?  "  asked  Nik  Leka  sceptically, 
spreading  out  his  coarse  palms. 

The  Abbot  looked  at  him. 

His  eyes  made  the  pedlar  vaguely  ashamed ;  a  disconcert- 
ing sensation,  as  though  his  cynical  mask  were  an  un- 
worthy, and,  in  this  case,  an  inefficient  disguise ;  yet  feeling 
himself  pledged  to  an  explanation,  he  continued : 

' '  She  seems  content ;  all  the  world  loves  her ;  her  husband 
works,  and  is  no  drunkard — ah,  these  muleteers;  they  have 
the  devil's  own  luck!  She  has  children.  One  would  say 
that  meant  happiness!  And  yet — "  he  snapped  his  thick 
fingers — "  women,  look  you — they  are  capable  of  anything, 
of  anything!  They  even  dare  to  have  dreams!  " 

The  young  Abbot  smiled.  This  unexpected  lighting  of 
his  features  imparted  to  them  a  singularly  winning  ex- 
pression. Here  was  something  deeper  than,  though  a  re- 
minder of,  boyhood's  light-heartedness — the  optimism  of 
one  who,  knowing  the  darkness  and  seeing  the  goal,  re- 
joiced also  in  the  sunshine  by  the  way.  All  at  once  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  pedlar's  shoulder.  Nik  Leka,  con- 
sciously honoured,  waited  with  respect. 

"  We  all  have  dreams,"  said  the  young  priest  in  a 
moved  voice ;  ' '  but  only  those  who  love  are  truly  happy. ' ' 

The  pedlar,  deeply  impressed,  kept  silent. 

"  You  will  see  her  again,"  continued  the  Abbot.  "  Tell 
her — tell  her  of  this — "  with  a  slight  comprehensive  move- 
ment he  indicated  the  dreaming  Catholicon — "  tell  her  of 
the  peace,  of  the  silence — yes,  of  the  blessed  silence."  He 
paused.  Nik  Leka,  watching  him  with  a  feeling  akin  to 
awe,  saw  a  light  come  into  his  face.  "  Tell  her  that  I  re- 
joice in  her  happiness — that  I  see  now — I  see — the  mean- 
ing of  the  old  pain.  We  are  all  children  crying  for  the 
little  thing,  not  seeing  the  greater.  Tell  her  that  I  bless 
and  thank  her  every  day  of  my  life ;  and  that — that  I  too 
am  happy." 

Silent,  out  of  respect  for  the  hand  still  on  his  shoulder. 
Nik  Leka  was  thinking  with  unusual  seriousness.  But  it 


324  FORBIDDEN  GROUND 

was  not  till — his  visit  at  an  end — he  found  himself  on  the 
path,  that  he  came  to  any  definite  conclusion  with  regard 
to  the  message.  Looking  backward  and  upward  at  Bar- 
laam,  now  peaceful,  dreaming,  crowned  with  sunlight,  he 
suddenly  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  am  a  fool!  "  he  cried.     "  But  what  matter!    I  can 
at  least  tell  her  that  the  Abbot  is  happy." 


[/THE  END.J 


An  American  Love-Story 

MARGARITA'S  SOUL 

BY 

JOSEPHINE  DASKAM  BACON 

[INQRAHAM  LOVELL] 

Profusely  Illustrated.      Sixteen  full-page  half-tone  Illustrations. 

Numerous  line  cuts,  reproduced  from  drawings  by  J.  Scott 

Williams.     Also  Whistler  Butterfly  Decorations. 

Cloth.      12mo.      $1.50 

'Filled  with  imaginative  touches,  resourceful,  intelligent 
and  amusing.  An  ingenious  plot  that  keeps  the  interest  sus- 
pended until  the  end,  and  has  a  quick  and  shrewd  sense  of 
humor."  — Boston  Transcript. 

"A  reviewer  would  hesitate  to  say  how  long  it  is  since  a 
writer  gave  us  so  beautiful,  so  naive,  so  strangely  brought  up 
and  introduced,  a  heroine.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  author 
is  already  at  work  on  another  novel."  —Toronto  Globe. 

"May  cause  the  reader  to  miss  an  important  engagement 
or  neglect  his  business.  A  love  story  of  sweetness  and  purity 
touched  with  the  mythical  light  of  Romance  and  aglow  with 
poetry  and  tenderness.  One  of  the  most  enchanting  creatures 
in  modern  fiction."  — San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

"It  is  extremely  entertaining  from  start  to  finish,  and 
there  are  most  delightful  chapters  of  description  and  romantic 
scenes  which  hold  one  positively  charmed  by  their  beauty  and 
unusualness. ' '  — Boston  Herald. 

"Sentimental,  with  the  wholesome,  pleasing  sentimentality 
of  the  old  bachelor  who  has  not  turned  crusty.  .  .  A  Thack- 
erayan  touch."  — New  York  Tribune. 

"Captures  the  imagination  at  the  outset  by  the  boldness 
of  the  situation.  .  .  We  should  be  hard  put  to  it  to  name  a 
better  American  novel  of  the  month."  — The  Outlook. 


THE    COMPLETE  WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM  J.   LOCKE 

"LIFE    IS    A     GLORIOUS    THING." — If.    J.     Locke 

"If  you  wish  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  petty  cares  of  to-day,  read  one 
of  Locke's  novels.  You  may  select  any  from  the  following  titles 
and  be  certain  of  meeting  some  new  and  delightful  friends.  His 
characters  are  worth  knowing.  " — Baltimore  Sun. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyae  The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria  The  Beloved  Vagabond 

A  Study  in  Shadows  The  White  Dove 

Simon  the  Jester  The  Usurper 

Where  Love  Is  Septimus 

Derelicts  Idols 

12mo.      Cloth.     $1.50  each 

Twelve  volumes  bound  in  green  cloth.       Uniform  edition  in  box. 
$18.00  per  set.     Half  Morocco  $50.00  net.     Express  prepaid. 

Simon  the  Jester 

(Profusely  illustrated  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 
"  It  has  all  the  charm  and  surprise  of  his  famous  *  Simple  Septimus. ' 
It  is  a  novel  full  of  wit  and  action  and  life.  The  characters  are  all 
out-of-the-ordinary  and  splendidly  depicted;  and  the  end  is  an 
artistic  triumph — a  fitting  climax  for  a  story  that's  full  of  charm 
and  surprise.  " — American  Magazine. 

The  Beloved  Vagabond 

"  'The  Beloved  Vagabond'  is  a  gently-written,  fascinating  tale. 
Make  his  acquaintance  some  dreary,  rain-soaked  evening  and  find 
the  vagabond  nerve-thrilling  in  your  own  heart. " 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

Septimus  (Illustrated  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 

"Septimus  is  the  joy  of  the  year. " — American  Magazine, 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"One  of  those  rare  and  much-to-be-desired  stories  which  keep  one 
divided  between  an  interested  impatience  to  get  on  and  an  irresis- 
tible temptation  to  linger  for  full  enjoyment  by  the  way. ' ' — Life. 

Where  Love  Is 

"  One  of  those  unusual  novels  of  which  the  end  is  as  good  as  the 
beginning. ' ' — Ne*w  York  Globe. 


WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 
The  Usurper 

"  Contains  the  hall-mark  of  genius  itself.  The  plot  is  masterly  in 
conception,  the  descriptions  are  all  vivid  Sashes  from  a.  brilliant 
pen.  It  is  impossible  to  read  and  not  marvel  at  the  skilled  work- 
manship and  the  constant  dramatic  intensity  of  the  incident,  situ- 
ations and  climax." —  The  Boston  Herald. 

Derelicts 

"  Mr.  Locke  tells  his  story  in  a  very  true,  a  very  moving,  and  a 
very  noble  book.  If  any  one  can  read  the  last  chapter  with  dry 
eyes  we  shall  be  surprised.  «  Derelicts  '  is  an  impressive,  an  im- 
portant book.  Yvonne  is  a  creation  that  any  artist  might  be  proud 
of."—  The  Daily  Chroniclt. 

Idols 

"  One  of  the  very  few  distinguished  novels  of  this  present  book 

season." — The  Daily  Mail. 

"  A  brilliantly  written  and  eminently  readable  book." 

'—The  London  Daily  Telegraph. 

A  Study  in  Shadows 

"  Mr.  Locke  has  achieved  a  distinct  success  in  this  novel.  He  has 
struck  many  emotional  chords,  and  struck  them  all  with  a  firm, 
sure  hand.  In  the  relations  between  Katherine  and  Raine  he  had 
a  delicate  problem  to  handle,  and  he  has  handled  it  delicately." 

—  The  Daily  Chronicle. 

The  White  Dove 

"  It  is  an  interesting  story.  The  characters  are  strongly  conceived 
and  vividly  presented,  and  the  dramatic  moments  are  powerfully 
realized." — The  Morning  Pott. 

The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

"  Think  of  Locke's  clever  books.  Then  think  of  a  book  as  differ- 
ent from  any  of  these  as  one  can  well  imagine — that  will  be  Mr. 
Locke's  new  book." — New  York  World. 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria 

«'  William  J.  Locke's  novels  are  nothing  if  not  unusual.  TheT  are 
marked  by  a  quaint  originality.  The  habitual  movel  reader  inevi- 
tably is  grateful  for  a  refreshing  sense  of  escaping  the  common- 
place path  of  conclusion." — Chicago  Record- Herald. 


EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 


The  Thief  of  Virtue  cloth.   J2mo.   $1.50 

"If  living  characters,  perfect  plot  construction,  imaginative  breadth 
of  canvas  and  absolute  truth  to  life  are  the  primary  qualities  of  great 
realistic  fiction,  Mr.  Phillpotts  is  one  of  the  greatest  novelists  of  the 
day.  .  .  .  He  goes  on  turning  out  one  brilliant  novel  after 
another,  steadily  accomplishing  for  Devon  what  Mr.  Hardy  did  for 
Wessex.  This  is  another  of  Mr.  Phillpotts'  Dartmoor  novels,  and 
one  that  will  rank  with  his  best.  .  .  Something  of  kinship  with 
'King  Lear'  and  '*Pere  Goriot.'  "  Chicago  Record  Herald. 

"The  Balzac  of  Dartmore.  It  is  easy  and  true  to  say  that  Mr. 
Phillpotts  in  all  his  work  has  done  no  single  piece  of  portraiture 
better  than  this  presentation  of  Philip  Ouldsbroom.  .  .  A  triumph 
of  the  novelist's  understanding  and  keen  drawing.  .  .  A  Dart- 
moor background  described  in  terms  of  an  artist's  deeply  felt 
appreciation.  — New  York  World. 

"  No  other  English  writer  has  painted  such  facinating  and  colorful 
word-pictures  of  Dartmoor's  heaths  and  hills,  woods  and  vales,  and 
billowy  plains  of  pallid  yellow  and  dim  green.  Few  others  have 
attempted  such  vivid  character-portrayal  as  marks  this  latest  work 
from  beginning  to  end."  The  North  American. 

"  A  strong  book,  flashing  here  and  there  with  beautiful  gems  of 
poetry.  .  .  Providing  endless  food  for  thought.  .  .  An  in- 
tellectual treat."  — London  Evening  Standard. 

The  Haven  cloth.    I2mo.   $1.50 

"The  foremost  English  novelist  with  the  one  exception  of  Thomas 
Hardy.  .  .  His  descriptions  of  the  sea  and  his  characterization 
of  the  fisher  folks  are  picturesqne,  true  to  life,  full  of  humorous 
philosophy."  — JEANNETIEL.  GILDER  in  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

**  It  is  no  dry  bones  of  a  chronicle,  but  touched  by  genius  to  life 
and  vividness.  '*  — Louisville,  Kentucky,  Post. 

"A  close,  thoughtful  study  of  universal  human  nature." 

— -The  Outlook. 

" One  of  the  best  of  this  author's  many  works."     — The  Bookman. 


MAUD  DIVER 

A  TRILOGY  OF   ANGLO-INDIAN 
ARMY  LIFE 

New  York  Times:  "Above  the  multitude  of  novels  (erotic  and 
neurotic)  hers  shine  like  stars.  She  has  produced  a  comprehensive 
and  full  drama  of  life,  rich  in  humanity;  noble,  satisfying — it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  great.  " 

(New  Editions) 

CANDLES   IN  THE  WIND 

CAPTAIN   DESMOND,  V.  C. 

THE  GREAT  AMULET 

Cloth,     izrno.     $fjo  each 

The  Argonaut  (San  Francisco}:  "  We  doubt  if  any  other  writer 
gives  us  so  composite  and  convincing  a  picture  of  that  curious  mixture 
of  soldier  and  civilian  that  makes  up  Indian  society.  She  shows  us  the 
life  of  the  country  from  many  standpoints,  giving  us  the  idea  of  a  store- 
house of  experience  so  well  stocked  that  incidents  can  be  selected  with 
a  fastidious  and  dainty  care." 

London  Morning  Post:  "  Vigor  of  characterization  accompanied  by 
an  admirable  terseness  and  simplicity  of  expression." 

Literary  World:  "Undoubtedly  some  of  the  finest  novels  that 
Indian  life  has  produced." 

London  Telegraph:  "Some  sincere  pictures  of  Indian  life  which  are 
as  real  and  convincing  as  any  which  have  entered  into  the  pages  of 
fiction." 

The  Chicago  Tribune:  "  The  characterization  is  excellent  and  her 
presentation  of  frontier  life  and  of  social  conditions  produces  a  strong 
impression  of  truth." 

Boston  Evening  Transcript:  "  Knows  absolutely  the  life  that  she 
depicts.  Her  characters  are  excellently  portrayed." 

Chicago  Record  Herald:  "  Well  told;  the  humanization  good  and 
the  Indian  atmosphere,  always  dramatic,  is  effectively  depicted.  Holds 
the  attention  without  a  break." 

Toronto  Mail:  "  Real  imagination,  force,  and  power.  Rudyard 
Kipling  and  imitators  have  shown  us  the  sordid  side  of  this  social  life. 
It  remains  for  Mrs.  Diver  to  depict  tender-hearted  men  and  brave,  true 
women.  Her  work  is  illuminated  by  flashes  of  spiritual  insight  that 
one  longs  to  hold  in  memory." 


M.  P.  WILLCOCKS 

The  Way  Up  cloth.   I2mo.   $1.50 

This  novel  is  one  that  touches  three  burning  questions  of  the  hour — 
capital  and  labor,  the  claims  of  the  individual  against  those  of  the 
State,  the  right  of  a  woman  to  her  own  individuality.  Besides 
being  a  picture  of  a  group  of  modem  men  and  women,  it  is  also  a 
study  of  certain  social  tendencies  of  to-day  and  possibly  to-morrow. 

The  Wingless  Victory  cloth.    I2mo.    $1.50 

"A  moving  drama  of  passion,  of  frailty,  of  long  temptation  and  of 
ultimate  triumph  over  it."  — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"A  most  remarkable  novel  which  places  the  author  in  the  first 
rank.  This  is  a  novel  built  to  last."  — Outlook. 

"A  book  worth  keeping  on  the  shelves,  even  by  the  classics,  for  it 
is  painted  in  colors  which  do  not  fade."  — Times. 

<f  Fresh  and  fervent,  instinct  with  genuine  passion  and  emotion  and 
all  the  fierce  primitive  joys  of  existence.  It  is  an  excellent  thing 
for  any  reader  to  come  across  this  book."  — Standard. 

"  A  splendid  book. "  — Tribune. 

A   Man   Of  Genius  Ornamental  Cloth.     12mo.     $1.50 

"Far  above  the  general  level  of  contemporary  fiction.  .  .  A 
work  of  unusual  power."  — PROFESSOR  WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS. 

Widdicombe:  A  Romance  of  the  Devonshire  Moors 

12mo.     $1.50 


MRS.  JOHN  LANE 

According  to  Maria  cloth.   I2mo.   $1.50 

"Mrs.  Lane's  touch  is  light,  yet  not  flippant.  She  is  shrewd  and 
humorous,  and  a  miracle  of  tactful  good  temper;  but  she  hits  hard 
and  straight  at  many  really  vital  social  weaknesses.  Future  social 
historians  will  find  here  ample  material.  Present-day  social  de- 
linquents and  social  critics  alike  may  read  with  pleasure  and  profit." 

— London  Morning  Leader. 

The  Champagne  Standard 

Cloth.     12mo.     $1.50  net.     Postage  12  cents. 

"  Mrs.  John  Lane  having  been  brought  up  in  this  country,  and  hav- 
ing married  in  England,  is  in  a  position  to  view  British  society  as  an 
American,  and  American  society  as  a  Londoner.  The  result  is  this 
very  entertaining  book."  — Nemo  York  Evening  Sun. 


DOLF  WYLLARDE 

12mo.     $1.50  each 

"Dolf  Wyllarde  sees  life  with  clear  eyes  and  puts  down  what  she 
sees  with  a  fearless  pen.  .  .  .  More  than  a  little  of  the  flavor 
of  Kipling  in  the  good  old  days  of  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills." 

York  Globe. 


Mafoota 

A  Romance  of  Jamaica 

"The  plot  has  a  resemblance  to  that  of  Wilkie  Collins*  'The  New 
Magdalen,'  but  the  heroine  is  a  Puritan  of  the  strictest  type;  the 
subject  matter  is  like  'The  Helpmate.'  "  —  Springfield  Republican. 

As  Ye  Have  Sown 

"A  brilliant  story  dealing  with  the  world  of  fashion." 

Captain  Amyas 

"Masterly."  —  San  Francisco  Examiner. 

"Startlingly  plain-spoken."  —  Louisville  Courier-  Journal. 

The  Rat  Trap 

"The  literary  sensation  of  the  year."  —  Philadelphia  Item. 

The  Story  of  Eden 

"Bold  and  outspoken,  a  startling  book."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 
"A  real  feeling  of  brilliant  sunshine  and  exhilarating  air." 

—  Spectator. 

Rose-  White  Youth 

*¥*  The  love-story  of  a  young  girl. 

The  Pathway  of  the  Pioneer 

%*  The  story  of  seven  girls  who  have  banded  themselves  together 
for  mutual  help  and  cheer  under  the  name  of  "Nous  Autres." 
They  represent,  collectively,  the  professions  open  to  women  of  no 
deliberate  training,  though  well-educated.  They  are  introduced  to 
the  reader  at  one  of  their  weekly  gatherings  and  then  the  author 
proceeds  to  depict  the  home  and  business  life  of  each  one  individ- 
ually. 

Tropical  Tales 

*#*  A  collection  of  short  stories  dealing  with  "all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions" of  men  and  women  in  all  classes  of  life  ;  some  of  the 
tales  sounding  the  note  of  joy  and  happiness;  others  portraying  the 
pathetic,  and  even  the  shady  side  of  life;  all  written  in  the  interest- 
ing manner  characteristic  of  the  author. 


CHARLES  MARRIOTT 


The  Intruding  Angel  cloth.    I2mo.    $1.50. 

The  story  of  a  mistaken  marriage,  and  the  final  solution  of  the 
problem  for  the  happiness  of  all  parties  concerned. 

When  a  Woman  Woos  cloth.   I2mo.   $1.50. 

"Unique.  The  book  is  on  the  whole  a  study  of  the  relations  of 
men  and  women  in  the  particular  institution  of  marriage.  It  is 
an  attempt  to  define  what  a  real  marriage  is,  and  it  shows  very 
decidedly  what  it  is  not.  Full  of  the  material  of  life.  '* 

— New  York  Times  Book  Re<vie<w. 

A  Spanish  Holiday 

Illustrated.     Cloth.     8<vo.     $2.50  net.     Postage  20  cents. 

"The  spirit  of  Spain  has  been  caught  to  a  very  great  degree  by  the 
author  of  this  book,  and  held  fast  between  its  covers. " 

— Book 


NETTA  SYRETT 
Olivia  L.  Carew  cloth.   I2mo.    $1.50 

An  interesting  character  study  of  a  passionless,  self-absorbed  woman 
humanized  by  the  influence  of  a  man's  love  and  loyal  devotion. 

Anne  Page.     A  Love-story  of  To-day         Cloth.     12mo.     $1.50 

"Readers  must  judge  for  themselves.  Women  may  read  it  for 
warning  as  well  as  entertainment,  and  they  will  find  both.  Men 
may  read  it  for  reproach  that  any  of  their  kind  can  treat  such  women 
so.  And  moralists  of  either  sex  will  find  instructions  for  their 
homilies,  as  well  as  a  warning  that  there  may  be  more  than  one 
straight  and  narrow  way."  — New  York  Times. 

Six  Fairy  Plays  for  Children 

Sq.  12mo.     $1.00  net.     Postage  8  cents. 


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